


The Devil's Servant

by TheSHERlokidwhovian



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Anxiety, Aurélie is a mezzo-soprano, Childhood Trauma, Erik needs a friend, F/M, Gen, first time posting yey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 31,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSHERlokidwhovian/pseuds/TheSHERlokidwhovian
Summary: 1872. A year has passed since the great catastrophe. No ghosts haunt the ruins of the once great Opéra Garnier anymore. He is gone, the Phantom, and with him the music too beautiful for the rank and file.Memories slowly dying and his genius threatening to fade into obscurity, a young woman descends to the world beneath the streets of Paris in hope of finding her courage. Yet who would have thought of coming up against somebody who is believed to be long dead?Updates when university stops stressing me out.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! Welcome, Ladies and Gentlemen!  
> Take a seat, so we can start with today's performance. Please turn off your phone or devices of such kind. Thank you.  
> Enjoy the show!

The soft spring breeze caressed her porcelain skin, touched every inch of her body, made her moan in pleasure. She barely ever had the chance to enjoy a morning all by herself, no eyes watching her, no fear paralysing her. This kind of freedom was precious to her, so precious.  
  
Her cream dressing gown seamed with delicate laces had fallen to the dark parquet floor, revealing her well-built figure, her long auburn hair kept in a braid reaching her round hips. Many would have desired her, thirsted for her attention, if it wasn’t for the scars embracing her shoulders, seemingly pouring down her cleavage and her ribcage, ending only at her pelvic bones. The blemishes continued on her thighs, her knees and shins. Her back made to look like wings breaking through its reddish skin.  
  
Fire. How much she was afraid of nature’s element. How many nights she had spent in darkness, staring at the mirrors and paintings in fear of a candle lighting the curtains, the carpets, the bed sheets. How often she had woken from nightmares torturing her soul and body.  
  
She wouldn’t have continued walking her way, if it hadn’t been for her grandmother. Her beloved mémère. Having lost her sight during her childhood, she truly saw the world with different eyes. Never giving in. Never giving up. No matter the costs. No matter the pain. Oh how well she knew pain. Emotional. Physical. Yet she refused to let it stop her. Some would have called her stubborn, but not she, not her own flesh and blood. A hero. A master. A mentor. If she had just been like her. Like the one woman in the world who walked the path of death without regret, without remorse.  
  
It were silent footsteps that brought her back down to earth. Silent yet distinctive. She knew them well, they were familiar to her ears. How could she not have known them? She had heard them first at the age of four, when their causer had entered her bed chambers and knocked down her favourite doll. She wanted to be mad at him, but she couldn’t. Those big brown puppy eyes pleading for forgiveness, they melted her heart.  
  
She looked back over her shoulder, a blush creeping on her cheeks. He was standing there, a palm covering his face. He had always respected her privacy. Perhaps this was caused by him having younger twin sisters. Nonetheless a mischievous grin played around his lips. “I swear, I’m not looking.”  
  
“You wouldn’t want to see it anyway.” She sighed, bending forward and grasping her dressing gown. “Stop saying that, Aurélie!” She glanced up, as she put on the comfortable piece of fabric. “It’s not true.”  
  
“Did they call you a “failed painting”, a “traitor to your bloodline”?” Aurélie sat down on her bed, her fingers stroking over the scars on her legs. “No, but I was told to “return where I came from” among other things.” Arms crossed, he leaned against the doorframe, the morning sun kissing his beautiful dark skin. Both of them had been harassed in the past, but only one of them had kept their confidence. Only one of them refused to hide beneath layers of fabric, of clothes. Why did she feel the way she did? She was nothing more than a broken porcelain doll, having given up the waiting for being fixed.  
  
A tear formed in the corner of hear eye. It coursed down, made its way over her cheek, until it stopped at her chin and dropped onto her open palms. She even failed at being insulted, so pathetic. Sometimes she hated her mind, the thoughts racing from one point to another, screaming and shouting she wasn’t good enough. This internal fight had started a long time ago, she could barely remember the silence in her head. At least there was a way to calm herself down, to distract herself from all the pain, the burning of her skin, the aching of her limbs. Her mémère had thought her. She claimed, she used this method herself, whenever fear crawled out of its cave, whenever the world showed her boundaries.  
  
“Sing!” She had said. “Sing, Aurélie.“ It would give her wings, wings to start a journey to a strange new world, to where her she longed to be. So often Aurélie had used music as a key to unlock her courage and after all these years it had made her quite a professional musician. In another life she might have been a famous opera singer, but she was caught in a cage, in a creed that wasn’t hers.  
  
“Do you still want to explore the catacombs beneath the opera?” Her oldest friend asked, now standing in front of her and holding out a hand. “As long as you don’t wander off anywhere, Vincent.” A soft chuckle was his response, as she took the offer and was pulled to her feet. A head taller than her, Vincent stood at 1,82 m and hence always had the overview. Rather useful, especially when one earned their money with killing people, the right people.  
  
“I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes. Don’t be late!”  
  
“I won’t.” With a nod, he vanished behind the door. She was beyond thankful for having the young gentleman as a friend, an ally, a brother not in blood, but in bond. They may have shared their family name, yet their family ties weren’t a bit entangled. Her great-grandfather simply happened to have adopted Vincent’s grandfather at some point and thus inherited his name.  
  
Closing the window, Aurélie took a deep breath, before slowly walking towards her wardrobe. Another day, another chance to prove herself. She wasn’t too optimistic though. The catacombs beneath the Opéra Garnier, the sheer endless channels and corridors held nothing but water and rats. Nonetheless she needed to go down there, even if it meant that she’d have to take a swim in the not particularly clean water.  
  
About a year ago there had been a horrible accident at the Opéra Garnier, during the premiere of an opera whose creator remained hidden behind the thick curtains. The soprano was kidnapped, the chandelier fell and people were horrified by the “Phantom’s” appearance, a mysterious being existing between the world of the living and the world of the dead. It was said he covered his hideous, corpse-like face with a mask. To some, especially Vincent the entire story seemed constructed. Merely a lie to entertain the audience. Yet Aurélie truly believed in the existence of the Phantom, she hoped to find remains – not carcasses – in the lake which was claimed to be found beneath the opera.  
  
If it was indeed as hideous as she was told, would she still be fascinated by it? Mesmerised by it? For some reason, she couldn’t fathom why, she wasn’t afraid of all the stories, the legend, the myth. In fact, it was the only thing that made her brave, determined, willing to leave all the fears behind and enter a world she had never seen before.


	2. Chapter 2

Darkness embraced the two companions, a gloomy atmosphere reminding them of who was said to have lived down here. A ghost. A phantom. A creature so hideous even the rats took to their heels. Was it true? The story. The myth. The legend. The accidents did happen. The kidnapping of the leading soprano did happen. But who knew if that mysterious being wasn’t walking among the civilians, the ignorami, having overcome its obsession with Christine Daeé.  
  
Six years younger than herself, the opera singer had become a star in no time, with the help of a certain Phantom of course. She was indeed beyond beautiful and her voice was that of an angel. Barely twenty, still a child and yet she had reached more than Aurélie would ever have the chance to. No wonder, everybody adored her. If she could be Christine, for a single day only. She couldn’t, she mustn’t. She had a creed to follow and people to protect. In another life perhaps, she would have become a world-famous opera singer, a musical genius mesmerising the masses.  
  
Water soaking into her boots let her stay from her fantasies. Looking back, she noticed her cape swimming behind her. So that’s why walking had become so exhausting.  
  
“Do you think there are fish in these channels?”  
  
“Certainly. It’s fed by the Seine after all.” Vincent responded with a grunt, seemingly dissatisfied with her answer. “Are you afraid of them?” Although her companion laughed at this question, it was not meant to be a joke. Fear had been her greatest enemy, disguised in the attire of a close friend. She knew how it was to feel like dying, to feel as life itself is leaving her body. Nightmares had been keeping her from sleeping since she was a child. Nightmares she couldn’t run away from, hide from. Back in the day her mémère used to watch over her. But now, now she was all by herself.  
  
“A light, Aurélie! In the distance.” The young man took her hand and lead her to the presumable end of the tunnel. For usual, she was prone to touch, flinched when somebody stepped too close. Yet in this moment fear had turned into excitement.  
  
A lake. A lake surrounded by candelabrums, curtains and broken mirrors. The plateau, on its edge, there were tables, mannequins, even a bed in the corner of the cave. Somebody had lived down here.   
  
“Imagine we found a certain apple. Or a sword. A shroud perhaps?” Of course, he was thinking of such kind of remains. In honesty, it wouldn’t be too surprising to find one of the precious artefacts in a cave beneath the Opéra Garnier. On the other hand, why had nobody found it yet? Not to mention that the temples and vaults familiar to both Vincent and Aurélie had a distinctive architecture, geometrical and covered in strange patterns. This on the other hand was a simple cave, created by none other than mother nature herself.  
  
“I dare to doubt it.” She muttered, lifting herself out of the water and onto the stone. Letting her gaze drift over the rather strange living space, she carefully set one foot in front of the other. Her fingers drew patterns on her palm, a way to calm herself down. When she passed an alleged working desk scattered with all kind of utensils, she accidentally stepped on a piece of paper. Kneeling down, her eyes flew over the music notes written on it. Instinctively she started humming the melody. Maybe it was the fear rising in her chest, making her ribcage ache, which had caused this reaction. “Sing!” Her mémère had said. “Sing, Aurélie.“  
  
“I will, mémère. I will.” Whispering the words to herself, she started singing, singing the music resting on her palms. Her voice filled the cave, the catacombs, the channels and corridors and suddenly the cool and damp air grew warm, like somebody had lighted a chimney fire. Cheeks flushed, she continued and with every passing second it seemed as something seized hold of her, tightening its grasp around her. The touch, the soft and cautious touch. Electricity dancing over the little skin that was exposed. What was this? The effect the angelic melody had on her.  
  
“Come to me!” A voice, hoarse and somehow sad. Jumping back, she dropped the piece of paper. Her heart raced, throbbed against her ribcage, accompanied by tears dwelling in her deep blue eyes. When she lowered her head, she noticed her hands shaking. Sheer fear spread all over her body, possessed every fibre, every inch. A ghost lived beneath the opera.  
  
“Aurélie!” Vincent hurried to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Worry graced his handsome features, worry and a hint of admiration. “What’s wrong? What happened?” Panic seamed his voice, he genuinely cared about her.  
  
She flinched, as he lifted his hand to her cheek. She wanted to scream, tell him to go away, to leave this wicked place. A rope had been laid around her neck, invisible to Vincent, but not to her. It kept her from making any noise. The pain in her chest rose again, a needle in her heart couldn’t have hurt more.  
  
“Look at me Aurélie! Please!” She couldn’t no matter how hard she tried. Her gaze was fixed on a mask on the stone floor, it was staring at her with the devil’s eyes. It called her, asked her to step closer and so she did.  
  
Her legs carried her to the mysterious white mask, which had once hidden a face from the looks of the public. Why would somebody need to seal their face away? For the same reason somebody was wearing several layers of clothing. Fear. Fear of rejection. Fear of failure. Fear of death.  
  
Carefully, cautiously she extended her hand, her fingertips touching the smooth surface. How beautiful it was, a piece of art she dared to think. Who was the one behind it? Who had crafted it? What if the voice and the mask had the same origin, the same owner, the same creator?  
  
“He’s here.” She breathed. “Vincent, he was here.” Rising back to her feet, she clutched the mask, held it close to her chest. The reason was beyond her knowledge, but it, the mask made her feel safe. Safe in a world which had showed her only little compassion.  
  
“We should go, Aurélie.”  
  
“No, please.” She begged, fingernails digging into her crimson velvet jacket. “We need to find him.” A hint of pity flashed over his face, before he let out a sigh. He lowered his head to examine the countless sheets of music scattered all over the floor. “What if we gather all the pieces of paper instead? You can take them with you and study them. Our brothers and sisters will be searching for us already.” She loosened the grip on the precious remain and nodded. Perhaps she would be able to perform the very song that had summoned that mysterious voice. After all it was a theatre which she called home, a place to gather and watch plays, listen to philosophers and politicians. The Café Théâtre had been her playground since she took her first steps upon this earth. Maybe there was the tiniest chance of luring the Phantom to her, when she brought his masterpiece on stage.  
  
“Come! We need to hurry.” Vincent had already picked up most of the sheets and merely the one she had held earlier was still missing. What if? What if that voice belonged to the Phantom? Not her own mind playing a trick on her, but an ability her great-grandfather, her mémère and her father possessed, an ability her older sister lacked. What if the invitation was merely an echo of the past? She needed answers, she needed to know the truth.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Aurélie knelt down once again and reached for the first page of the ghost’s masterpiece. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

„What has driven you to enter the Café in such an attire?” Marceline, mother to Vincent and his twin sisters Colette and Coline and artistic director of the Café Théâtre, exclaimed in annoyance, when said young man and Aurélie stepped into the showroom. Many were surprised by the blood bond between her and her son, since her skin was pale, her hair almost white as snow and her eyes, they resembled icicles.  
  
“We were searching for artefacts.” What a fine liar her companion was, he often managed to convince his opponents of the presumable truth he was telling. With him as an ally, she was able to go anywhere at any time she desired. Not to mention the fact that he was a talented fighter, guns being his preferred weapon, and always managed to win brawls and duels. Although she didn’t aspire to be him, she admired him, his courage, his bravery. He wasn’t afraid of anything. Anything but fish in the channels beneath the opera. She felt less miserable about herself thanks to this.  
  
“Artefacts? Where?” The once young woman crossed her arms in front of her chest, her gaze wandering to Aurélie. It intimidated her, made her lower her head in surrender. “Beneath the Opéra Garnier.” Instinctively she reached for the mask in her coats pocket, stroking over it gently.  
  
“It’s dangerous down there.” “We’re assassins, maman. The life we lead is dangerous. Or do you think, sending Colette and Coline away to London all on their own is harmless?” He spoke up against her, his own mother. She never would have dared to even think of doing such a thing. Submissive, cowardly, shy, anxious. Terms describing her perfectly. An assassin was raised to be the opposite; they weren’t afraid of death, after all they gave their lives for a noble cause. She had been born into the wrong family, her bloodline was graced with Masters, Mentors, who revolutionised the Brotherhood, revitalised an order almost as old as humanity itself.  
  
Her calling, her destiny wasn’t to walk through the streets of Paris, hiding in the shadows, becoming one with them. The stage was her home, it had always been. Stage fright was unbeknownst to her. She felt secure, she felt real. The only place she had the courage to be herself, it happened to be the Phantom’s kingdom.  
  
“Go and get yourself some clean clothes, before I throw you out.” Vincent simply rolled his mahogany eyes, not paying attention to his mother’s ramblings. Aurélie on the other hand, she nodded without losing a word and made her way straight to her chambers. A warm bath would help collecting her thoughts and reflect on the most recent events for sure.  
  


* * *

 

Less than an hour later she had retired for the day, letting the water in the bath tub caress her sensitive skin. The Phantom’s music sorted and placed on top of the desk that had once belonged to her great-grandfather. What secrets were still hidden inside? Ancient love letters? A diary?  
  
She rested her chin on the edge of the tub, closed her eyes and let her mind wander. Had she ever left the Café Théâtre unaccompanied like her older sister Juliette often did? Vincent had always been by her side, as long as she could remember. He was her protector, her guardian angel watching over her. She depended on him and his fighting skills. Although she had been trained by both her parents and several others of her kind, she was unsure of how to make use of it. The one time she had tried to defend herself had ended in a catastrophe, scarring her for life.  
  
Her heart racing once again, she sat up and pulled her knees close, wrapping her arms around them. The fear impended to return, the irrational fear impossible to be fathomed. Her gaze wandered, drifted over the room in search for something taking away that horrible feeling of being torn apart from the inside. There had to be something. A doll her mémère had given her for her birthday. A broken dagger telling the story of how her father had almost died in a brawl, back then when he was her age. A mask belonging to a ghost.  
  
This beautiful white mask, it rested atop her bed. If the Phantom felt as lonely as she did, shunned by society and forced to live in the shadows? Her blood, her line was nothing but a curse. A millennia old conflict, two secret entities and between them hundred and thousands of bodies of innocents. She had never dared to lay a finger on anyone, had never dared to raise her blade against somebody’s throat. She lacked one of the most important abilities her kind needed. The killer instinct. It was essential and yet she didn’t posses it. She was a shame not only to her family, but the entire Brotherhood. Others were forced to survive on the streets of Paris, orphans, elders, poverty spared no one. Aurélie though, she had had the luck to have been raised by her parents in a loving environment, at least until that one faithful night.  
  


 _It had been a rather peaceful night. The heavy rain, the storm which had raged throughout the day, was gone and cool air filled the Café Théâtre. The moon shining through the window kept her from falling asleep, it seemed as it was calling her to it. Whispers, murmurs echoing in her ears. Did her mind play tricks on her?  
_  
_Curiosity urged her to leave her warm and cosy bed, her fortress of comfort and follow the luminary’s plea. Grabbing her precious porcelain doll, clutching it to her chest, she set one foot before the other. The cold wooden floor made her shiver. She didn’t dare to look away and her eyes mirrored heaven’s tent.  
_  
_“Don’t leave! Wait for me!” When clouds passed by, covered her oldest friend, a tear streamed down her cheek. Her feet started moving, running without her intention to do so. It was as a mysterious force had taken hold of her. The stairs were no obstacle to be broken through; she dashed down to the main hall, where the last rays of the moonlight shone onto the floor. Faster. She had to go faster. “Madame Lune!” Her hand reaching out skywards, she rushed outside into the garden. It had vanished, the moon had vanished. “No…Madame Lune, please.” A root sticking out the floor, she overlooked it as her gaze was still fixed on the empty heavens above. It caught her foot and in the blink of an eye she had fallen to the ground._  
  


Moist earth, the scent of moist earth. The last thing Aurélie could remember, the last thing before fate had turned against her. Shreds, pieces of memories of music and voices, the pain, they haunted her slumber, her dreams. Only her precious mémère, watching over her during the night, was able to protect her, to comfort her. But now she was gone. Gone forever.  
  
Tears streamed down her face, tears of sorrow, of anguish. Her scars, they burned, burned like hell itself had been unleashed. Why did it hurt so much? Still, after all these years. The wounds were healed and yet it seemed as they were open, exposed to the cruelty of the world.  
  
She had to go back, return to the secret lair beneath the Opéra Garnier. And she was to lure the ghost out with his very own masterpiece. It would stop the pain, stop the agony, stop the madness spreading in her mind. When angels turn against one, it is time to side with the ghosts instead.


	4. Chapter 4

The sun had already set as Aurélie snuck out the Café Théâtre, mask and music sheets stored in the pocket inside her coat. Black as night itself it was, embroidered with the assassin’s emblem and vines twining around the sleeves. Beneath a blood red jacket and tucked into the black trousers, a white shirt with frills. Auburn hair pinned up loosely, a few strands found their way to freedom and framed her doll-like features.  
  
At this moment, she wasn’t a delicate flower as usual. She was the sharp blade attached to the assassins’ arm. Although she didn’t possess her kind’s signature weapon, she had still armed herself. A sword once owned by her great-grandfather, hidden under her coat. Was she able to defend herself? She refused to let this thought haunt her mind, fear would have seized hold of her otherwise. Now was not the time to be afraid. The mask, the music, it protected her.  
  
Descending into Paris's underworld, she tightened her grasp around the hilt of her sword. Urchins, beggars, criminals retired to the catacombs during the night and not only a handful of such shady characters were keen on running into money.  
  
Why had she come down here? She could have entered the tunnels through the opera, through the window leading to the chapel. The entire building with its breath-taking architecture, it was honeycombed with corridors and secret entrances. A playground for the very ghost roaming through it as he pleased, whenever he pleased.  
  
Aurélie was sure the ghost, the Phantom was male. After all the mask was a replica of his own features which were certainly that of a man. A handsome man as far as she could tell. What colour were his eyes? A deep blue like the sea she sometimes dreamt of? A dirty green mirroring the beauty of nature? Or dark as night itself?  
Moist air, she was close. The cannels would appear in front of her at any moment. Slowly the fog crawled over the wet stones beneath her, crept up her black leather boots. It seemed to have come to life, the mist. It welcomed her. Welcomed her to the Phantom’s kingdom. Why had she come down here? She could slip, could fall and then…  
  
“Sing!” Mémère had said. “Sing, Aurélie!“ It would give her wings, wings to start a journey to a strange new world, to where she longed to be. Where did she long to be? Wasn’t she already at the very place her heart, her mind desired? “Don’t let fear overcome you. Nothing can harm you…not here. Not in his presence.” Tears dwelled in her  eyes, when her shaking hand reached into her pocket, pulling out the yellowed pieces of paper.  
  
A voice in her head, it screamed, pleaded, begged her to leave, to turn around and go back to where she was safe, where no ghosts, no phantoms walked through the endless corridors. She had to shut it up, it would not lead her astray, not today.  
  
“Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation.” Her voice trembling, her heart racing, she continued setting one foot before the other, her grasp tightening with every step. “Darkness stirs and wakes imagination.” A noise, behind her. Twirling around, she found its origin, a few rats bustling in a corner.  
  
“Silently the senses abandon their defences.” The channels, illuminated and seamed with countless candelabrums. Cautiously, she knelt down and let the waves swallow her legs, hips, her entire lower body. They reached her waist, making the clothes stick to her skin. It was the only way; the path had ended.  
  
“Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour.” With every word, with every step, fear seemed to be pushed back more and more. Courage dared to break through. The music was liberating her from the chains tightly wrapped around her. There was something else as well, but what? An undefinable feeling, strange and rather displeasing. “Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender.” Was his touch as tender as his music, his voice still echoing in her ears? “Turn your face away from the garish light of day. Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light.”  
  
“And listen to the music of the night.” Startled, blinking in confusion, she looked around her. Both panic and curiosity flashed through her mind, her thoughts. Was this an illusion? Had the ghost answered her call or was somebody playing tricks on her? “Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams.”  
  
“Purge your thoughts of the life you know before.” Her legs, they started moving on their own, they carried her through the channel to the cave. She clutched the paper to her chest, tears rolling down her cheeks. Not tears of fear, of sorrow, but of joy.  
  
“Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar!” She did as commanded and finally standing in the middle of the lake, her eyes fluttering, her heart pounding against her chest, Aurélie whispered. “And you’ll live as you’ve never lived before.”  
  
“Softly, deftly, music shall caress you.” That voice. That mesmerising voice. From all directions, echoing through the cave. Somewhere and nowhere at the same time. Only a ghost was able to do such a thing, create a spell out of a handful of notes. He was not human, was he? Heaven itself had sent him, or rather hell? “Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you.”  
  
“Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind. In this darkness that you know you cannot fight.” How fitting. There was a certain darkness occupying her mind and no matter how hard she tried, all fights were condemned to be lost. Every single day of her miserable life, broken and defeated she went to bed, afraid of nightmares tormenting her once again. “The darkness of the music of the night.”  
  
“Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before. Let your soul take you where you long to be.” Silence. For a single second. She could hear breathing, footsteps. Casting up her eyes, Aurélie vainly searched for their origin. To her left, to her right, behind the desk she had found the sheets of music on earlier. “Only then can you belong to me.” Was this? Was this a sob? Did she hear crying?  
  
“Floating, falling, sweet intoxication.” With caution she stepped out of the lake onto the stone plateau, gaze drifting over the water’s surface. A shiver ran down her spine, as she walked past the organ. “Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation.” Gently her fingers brushed the keys and suddenly an unfamiliar tune filled her mind. Frightened, she stumbled backwards, knocking off several candelabrums and a pen of the desk, revealing sketches and drawings. Some breath-taking, others disturbing. “Let the dream begin. Let your darker side give in to the power of the music that-“  
  
“You write. To the power of the music of the night.” That change, that resumption was surprisingly spontaneous, yet intentional. An intention to send a message to the ghost. He had not been forgotten, his music, his work, his genius. She had not forgotten him. How could she? Both their souls, lost and torn apart. “I alone can make your song take flight.”  
  
“Help me make the music of the night.” The Phantom whispered, his hot breath against her neck. Fear paralysed her, turned her to stone. Gathering all her courage, she turned around, her grasp around the pieces of paper tightening. The sight unveiling in front of her, the failed assassin, it melted the anguish, the insecurities.  
  
He was beyond beautiful. One eye dark as night itself, the other blue as the morning sky. But sadness, sorrow glimmering in both of them. Soft features and yet they seemed so delicate, like porcelain daring to break. There was a certain vulnerability to him. Were it the deformations covering half of his face? The scars across his cheek? Deformed beauty. Breath-taking beauty. Mesmerising beauty.  
  
Only inches between the two of them; he was too close, far too close. She had to get away, just a step or two. Her body shaking, her heart racing and her chest aching, she did take a step back and slipped.  
  
The cold waves embraced her, as she flailed in panic, desperately reaching for something to hold onto. She would not die here, in the Phantom’s kingdom beneath the Opéra Garnier. She could not die here. Not today.  
  
At once everything returned. Memories of oil being poured over her, flames dancing on her skin. Cries, laughter, murmurs. Her precious doll lying in the dirt. An angel, leaving her side, when she needed it the most. The pain, it was overwhelming, took her breath away, strangled her, suffocated her. It was time to make peace with herself, time to descend into another realm unbeknownst to the living.


	5. Chapter 5

A hand reaching for hers, beneath the surface. Closing around her wrist, Aurélie was pulled out of the water and back to life. Her saviour, the very man she had tried to flee from, stood in front of her, his grip still tight. Neither of them dared to say a word and a discomforting silence started to unfurl.  
  
Head lowered in submission, her eyes wandered over the waves. The music, scattered all over the lake. She took a step back to fully process what she had done, what she had caused.  
  
“Y-Your work…” Tears, she tried to hold them back, with all her might. Suddenly her scars started to burn again, burn like the day they had come into existence. All she wanted to do was scream, but her throat was tied up, she was caught in a rope and dangling from ceiling.  
  
“Why did you steal it?” He let go of her, so she could retrieve her hand. “I…” Her fingers digging into her soaked jacket, she tried her best to calm herself. “I thought this place was abandoned. I didn’t want your genius to be forgotten.” She looked up, unsure of what the expression on his face meant. Shock? Anguish? Anger? Joy?  
  
At that moment she remembered the mask in her pocket. With a swift movement, Aurélie drew it out and softly brushed over it. “I didn’t want you to be forgotten.” For some the ghost, the Phantom was a threat, but for her he was a blessing, a saviour, her saviour.  
  
She held out the mask for him to take, but he simply turned around and walked away. “Wait!” Afraid of losing the chance to properly talk to him, she followed him out of the lake and onto the stone plateau. “Angel of music…”  
  
“What did you…?”  
  
“Hide no longer, secret and strange angel.” She was fully aware of what she was singing to him, of who had once sung it to him. She may not have been his Christine, yet she did everything in her power to show the Phantom he was not alone. Aurélie didn’t pity but adore him. Everything about him, although she had never met him before. She was caught in his net, in his spell.  
  
“Flattering child, you shall know me. See why in shadow I hide.” He turned to her, a pained expression gracing his beautiful face. “I’m not afraid of you.” Stepping closer and her eyes fixed on him, she held the mask close. “I never was.”  
  
“Who are you?” A sad smile plucked on the corner of her mouth. “I’m nobody.” She avoided his gaze, ashamed of her answer. The name she carried, it was more of a curse than a blessing. Her name was the reason scars covered her body, her mind, her soul. Had she been born another person, she would have never had to go through all that pain and suffering. Had she been born Christine Daaé, she would have had the chance to make the stage her own kingdom and the audience her subjects. Yet her destiny was to kill, to murder the ones deemed guilty by a council of elders, refusing to leave their sanctuary beneath the Café Théâtre.  
  
Lost in her thoughts, she was only brought back, when heavy fabric embraced her shoulders. “You’ll get cold.” He said, his voice empty and hollow, before vanishing behind a curtain. She wanted to follow him, to rise to her feet and walk after him, but his scent. Was she wearing his cloak? So soft and warm and that intoxicating scent. Eyes fluttering, she wrapped it even tighter around herself. Why had he done this? He didn’t know her, had never met her. What was the reason behind this act of kindness?  
  
“Masquerade! Paper faces on parade. Masquerade!” This mesmerising sound, echoing through the cave. There was no sign of hope though, only sorrow.  “Hide your face, so the world will never find you!” The pain in his voice, the silent sobs between the words. She could not listen to it. It felt as a blade dug deeper into her heart with every note. What had shattered his soul? Or rather who?  
  
“Masquerade! Every face a different shade. Masquerade!” Aurélie rose to her feet, one hand holding the cloak together, while the other kept the mask close to her chest, and let the music guide her to the opera ghost. He sat on the edge of his bed in the shape of a swan and lined with red velvet, head lowered and tears making their way over his cheeks, falling to the stone floor.  
  
”Look around—there's another mask behind you!” His white porcelain mask, lying next to him. “I didn’t want to steal from you, Monsieur.” She had put it there, as a sign of appreciation. The Phantom, he turned to her, rather confused by her presence. He furrowed his brows, before grabbing the mask and attempting to cover his face. “No!” Her hand brushed his as she reached for it. For a moment it seemed as the pain and sorrow had left his mind, he was staring at her in awe. “There’s no need to hide from me.”  
  
“Sing!”  
  
“What…?”  
  
“Please.” The pleading look, the despair in his eyes. There was no way she could have declined. “You have brought me to the scene of sweet music’s throne, to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music. Music…” It calmed him, it indeed calmed him. “I have come here for one purpose and one alone…”  
  
“Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me to serve me to sing for my music.”  
  
“Your music.” He had never heard her sing before, was he thinking of Christine? His expressions softened and as he glanced at her, a smile flashed over his lips. The kind of silence now unfurling, it was comforting in a way. Waterdrops falling to the ground. Plop. Plop. Plop.  
  
Aurélie didn’t know how much time had passed, when the ghost suddenly stood up and once again vanished behind a curtain. Where was he going? Her eyes not moving from where she had last seen him, her heart started racing. He hadn’t left, had he? At least his cloak was still with her and the mask, on the side table next to the bed.  
  
“Come back.” She whispered against the heavy fabric around her shoulders. “Wandering child, so lost, so helpless.” He appeared behind her in all of the sudden, making her turn around in surprise. Holding some neatly folded clothes in his hands, he cautiously put them down.  
  
“Yearning for your guidance.”  
  
“Take them!” Nodding, she followed his request, rising to her feet and undressing herself bit by bit. What a pleasant feeling it was, getting rid of soaking wet clothes sticking to her skin. The Phantom had walked off once again, giving her a little privacy to change.  
  
His attire, she was wearing his attire and it made her look smaller than she, in fact, was. A black pair of trousers, a white poet shirt and the cloak. What a shame the mask didn’t fit. Searching for the hospitable ghost living beneath the opera, she realised her fear having vanished. She felt safe, nothing to worry about, nothing to be afraid of.  
  
He sat at his organ, frustrated. “It’s broken.” Aurélie whispered, attracting his attention. “They took away my music.” Stepping closer, her fingers stroke over the keys and once again she heard a beautiful melody, humming it lost in thoughts. “They didn’t. They only took your tools, not your genius.” She smiled at him softly. Oh, what would she have given to touch him? He was so close and yet so far from her grasp. What would she have given to feel his breath against her skin once again? Fear had turned to curiosity, she noticed as the cloak slid from her shoulders and she sat down next to him. She didn’t mind him seeing her scars, the wings given to her as a child. They were both scarred by life, by the past.  
  
The cave was his sanctuary and somehow it seemed as it was hers as well. The Phantom would not have to spend his days in loneliness, in isolation. She could make his song take flight, help him make the music of the night.


	6. Chapter 6

Hours passed, hours of both silence and comfort. Barely a word was spoken and yet Aurélie couldn’t have had a more pleasant time. She had helped him sorting the countless sheets of music scattered all over the floor, the organ, the desk and even the bed. Neither of them knew the other’s name and yet it seemed as they had met years ago, an old and precious friendship bursting into bloom. There was no need for words, for talking, a simple melody was enough.  
  
“I grew up in a theatre, like you.” She said, examining a model of the opera’s stage. Such delicate work, the tiniest of details making her heart ache of joy. “It’s smaller of course and there’s no ghost haunting it, unfortunately.” Curiosity flashed over his features and within a moment, he was a child again. His eyes, they sparkled like the stars on the nightly firmament. He wanted her, he urged her to continue and this, it rose a shy smile from her. He was listening, the ghost, the Phantom was listening to her ridiculous stories about the Café Theatre she had been brought up in. Of course, certain parts were left out, since she had no intention to unsettle him, the mysterious figure hiding in the shadows. What a fine assassin he would have made.  
  
“When I was younger my sister and I used to sing duets on that little stage in front of the guests. They loved us.”  
  
“Why did you stop?” The question startled her, she blinked in confusion. There was a silent reproach in his voice and in a matter of seconds he stood in front of her, head tilted slightly and his eyes wandering over her body. “I…” The memories, the pain, the flames. All surfacing at once. The rope around her neck, she couldn’t breathe.  
  
He stared at her, both panic and bewilderment gracing his features. Not daring to touch her, he took a step back in search for something to calm her down.  
  
Tears streaming over her cheeks. The fear, it had returned, it had taken over her body. Why didn’t it stop? She was here, beneath the opera, in the Phantom’s kingdom. Why was she still afraid? Her fingers digging into the table on which the model was set up, her knees gave way and she fell to the ground. Paralyzed, Aurélie had no power over her own body. Thinking everything was lost, heavy fabric, the cloak was wrapped around her and two strong arms lifted her from the floor. “Wandering child, so lost, so helpless…” That soothing voice, the warmth of his embrace. He continued humming the melody, as he carried her to his bed and laid her down cautiously, covering her with a blanket. She could feel his gaze, his eyes resting on her. A blush creeping up her cheeks and a soft smile on her lips, she slowly drifted off to sleep.  
  
  


 _Strange noises. The scent of candles, of mud and tobacco. Darkness, something around her head, around her neck. Itchy and tight. Voices, muffled, deep and rough, belonging to a group of men. Shoulder bones digging into her stomach, a firm grip keeping her from moving. Her wrists tied together with a rope, chafing her skin. It stung, like the needle in a sewing machine. In and out, in and out.  
_  
_Where was she? Where was her doll? Where was Madame Lune? And why was she enchained? What had happened? Had she done something wrong? Were the boys from across the street playing pranks on her again? This didn’t seem like a prank though. They weren’t cunning enough, sly enough. And even the eldest of them still had the voice of a young boy, not that of a man.  
_  
_“Let me go!” She squeaked fiercely, pounding her little fists against her carrier’s back. “I have enough of your game.” A grunt followed, a grunt coming from behind. “There’s fire in the tiny brat.”  
_  
_"I’m not tiny, but your-“ Before being able to end the sentence, the sack on her head was removed. A mountain looked at her, bosky brows knitted and mouth curled into a malicious grin. He was beyond ugly and at that moment Aurélie wished to have inherited her grandmother’s blindness. “Shut your mouth, gosse!”  
_  
_“I’d keep my mouth shut in your case.” An impish grin on her child-like features, she spit in his face. “How dare you!” Furious, he raised his hand, but was stopped by another man, a shadow, smaller, yet leaner, before he could strike.  
_  
_“We have orders and you will follow them.”  
_  
_“I don’t care about the orders, I want to see this brat burn, with my own eyes.”  
_  
_“If you continue wasting my precious time, you will see your brat burn.” What were they talking about, the strangers? Why burn? She was not a witch and the witch hunts had ended a long time ago anyway.  
_  
_She demanded information, enlightenment about their current whereabouts and the reason behind all this fuss. “I want-“ Sharp pain, a blow to her head. Blinking perplexed, her gaze, it became blurred and she fell unconscious._  
  


Shooting up in panic, beads of sweat on her forehead, Aurélie looked around. The ghost, he had fallen asleep, no nightmares, no unpleasant memories disrupting his slumber. Had he been watching over her? Her cheeks heated up, she could barely hide her embarrassment.  
  
“Masquerade! Paper faces on parade. Masquerade!” The mask, it caught her attention. Cautiously she reached for it, considering the piece of art fondly. “Hide your face so the world will never find you!” Her eyes wandered to the sleeping Phantom, leaning against the wall, head lowered and arm resting on his knee. He didn’t want to be found, the mysterious man living in the shadows. Or maybe he thought, nobody wanted to find him. Who would search for a myth, a legend, a ghost? They didn’t exist. Yet for her he was more real than everything around her. Did she really hear the birds sing their love songs in the early hours? Did she indeed watch Vincent spar with his father every day? Had there ever been any scars on her skin?  
  
Biting her lower lip, hoping the burns were merely a phantasm, a trick her mind was playing on her, she let her fingers wander over her neck, down her shoulders. She tilted her had back, clinching her teeth, and closed her eyes. What had she done do deserve this cruel fate? Was she cursed? Cursed to look like the devil’s servant, to be the devil’s servant?  
  
“Masquerade! Every face a different shade. Masquerade! Look around—there's another mask behind you!” Tears streaming down her cheeks, she lowered her gaze and saw the ghost standing at the edge of the bed, a mask almost identical to the one in her hands, covering his face. A little boy trying to cheer up his friend, it seemed as they were both children again. Children of the night.  
  
Aurélie looked at him in wonder, when she suddenly realised that she had not told anybody about her whereabouts. “How late is it?” In a hurry, she rose to her feet, nervously searching for her sword. The Phantom simply stared at her, obviously confused by the question. “How long have I been here?”  
  
“I…I don’t know.” He whispered, guilt flashing over his features. “I need to go back, but I can’t without…” Walking past him, he caught her wrist. His grip was tight, yet soft and somehow it seemed as he didn’t want her to go. “Please.” All the sadness of the world. His eyes, his beautiful eyes told a story of loneliness, of fear and neglect. It tug at her heartstrings, she couldn’t leave him behind. “I will return.” She took his hands, making him flinch, her fingers stroking over his knuckles softly. “I promise.” Nodding, the ghost took a step back and pointed to her sword. Her lips curled into a thankful smile as she buckled it on.  
  
“There’s a secret passage behind the curtain, it will lead you outside.” Following his advice, she walked towards the passage, before stopping and slowly turning around.  
  
“Thank you, fântome.”


	7. Chapter 7

Heavy raindrops pelted against the roof and windows of the Café Théâtre. A storm, it had appeared unexpectedly, abruptly and in a matter of minutes the streets and alleys had turned into rivers and streamlets now made their way through them. It was late in the morning, but the sun had no chance to fight off the mountains of clouds.   
  
Aurélie hurried through the empty veins of Paris, no cat, no dog, not even the rats were to be seen. She hadn’t considered how much time would pass in the cave, the sanctuary beneath the opera. She had made no plan to follow, hadn’t thought this through and what had she gotten out of it? A few hours of peace, of joy and pleasure. In her entire life she had never felt so real. And now she was forced to return to the very place where everything had started. Her soul’s demise, her body’s destruction. Why could she not stay with him, the ghost, the phantom, the man behind the mask?  
  
Entering the Café Théâtre through the garden, she was greeted by her parents, her sister, Vincent and his mother standing in the main hall, worry gracing their faces.  
  
“Thank god, you’re safe.” Juliette, four years older than herself and a gifted assassin, pulled her into a tight embrace. “We thought something had happened to you.” Shame taking the place of glee, she lowered her gaze and waited for a lecture. She didn’t even try to explain, to think of an excuse. In all of the sudden she was small and helpless, as always.  
  
Her father, bearing the name Victor Charles Dorian in honour to his grandfather and great-grandfather, stepped forward, after his firstborn had finally let go of her younger sibling. “There’s an assassin hunter in Paris.” A veil of concernment laid over his dark blue eyes, yet he attempted to hide this concernment behind a well-intended pat on her shoulder. “Several of our brothers and sisters have already fallen prey to him.”  
  
“You will not leave the Café Théâtre without company. Nobody will.” Lucette, her mother, a strict but just woman, took her hands in hers and squeezed them softly. “I will not let anything happen to you ever again.” She shouldn’t have felt guilty about what had happened all those years ago. It had been beyond her power. No woman, no man could have foreseen the day everything changed.  
  
“Whose clothes are these?” Aurélie flinched at the question of her aunt, and a mere moment later she realised she was still wearing those the Phantom had given her.  
  
“I…” Stammering, she averted her gaze. They couldn’t know where she had been, they mustn’t know where she had been.  
  
“They’re mine.” Vincent, her knight in shining armour and talented liar. “Yours?” Aunt Marceline cocked an eyebrow at her son, he shrugged. “Old ones. I haven’t worn them in a long time and Aurélie’s were still wet, so I did her a favour. You don’t have to be afraid of any intruders, mother.” Master of lies and fairy tales. What luck she had to be able to call him her friend.  
  
“I suggest we make our way to the council and continue our discussions there.” Victor had barely ended the sentence, when the present assassins walked off, her oldest friend sending her a reassuring grin. “Why don’t you join us, Aurélie?” She raised her head, uncertain of why he had asked her. “I’m…I’m not an assassin, père.” Muttering under her breath, she wrapped her fingers around the cloak. She was not alone; the ghost was with her. There was no reason to be afraid. “But you’re my daughter nonetheless and no assassin hunter can harm a Dorian.”  
  
“I’d rather not join you. I’m only a millstone around your neck.”  
  
“As you wish. But don’t think you’re not welcome.”  
  
“I don’t.”

* * *

  
Aurélie had retired instantly afterwards. She sat on her bed, still in his attire and the cloak wrapped around her. What would she do now that imminent danger was upon the Brotherhood? She may not have been an assassin herself, yet it was undeniable she had relations to them. Such easy prey she was. Vulnerable. Anxious. Weak. A child in the body of a young woman, a little girl in the clutches of the cruel world. Hopefully the Phantom was well, safe in his kingdom of music.

Letting her gaze drift over the furniture in her chambers, a plain sheet of paper caught her attention. Maybe she could bring a bit of joy into the lonely life of the mysterious man behind the mask. Flowers. Paper flowers. They would never fade, never wither.  
  
Rising to her feet, she detached the cloak, letting it fall onto her bed, and walked straight to the desk. Her sister had bestowed her with a gift she had refused on Christmas a few years ago. A paint box with all kind of colours, warm and cold, vibrant and pale. And a brush, delicate and beautiful. Much like the Phantom.  
  
Noticing the lack of water, she hurried down the stairs into the garden, a cup previously standing on a side table in her right hand. The fountain at the centre, if it hadn’t rained, she would have considered tapping it, but now she simply had to wait for the raindrops to gather in the alienated teacup. It took less than a minute, before she could return to her room at start her work. Hopefully the ghost would like it.  
  
Cautiously she dipped the brush into the water first and into a pale pink second. She painted the first piece of paper and cut it, making it look like the petals of a Freesia, her favourite flower. As the alleged petals were still wet, they stuck together and so she formed several little blossoms, using wax to connect them to the flower stalk made out of another sheet painted green.  
  
In the end there were five types of such florets, the Primrose, the Peony, the Azalea, the Snowdrops and of course the Freesia. A bouquet, embracing spring and nature’s awakening. It was rather bright and pale, the colours smooth and calming. In fact, it was an apology. An apology for stealing his mask, his music. She had had no intention to harm him. How could she? His voice was the soft spring breeze caressing her porcelain skin. And she wouldn’t have minded enjoying a morning with him by her side. No talking, simply existing next to each other.  
  
How was she to return though? Walking the streets alone, during the night as she did only a few hours prior. After what she had heard today, this was out of question. An assassin hunter.  
  
Her heart started to race, beads of sweat forming on her forehead, her fingers digging into her hair as she rested her elbows on her thighs. The aching in her chest.  
She needed to get out of here, but she couldn’t. It would mean her end. She had no other choice but to stay where she was, no ghost, no phantom protecting her, comforting her. Doing her best to stand up, her entire body shaking, Aurélie stumbled to her bed, reaching for the cloak. Yet she could barely make it there, her knees giving in once again, she caught herself in time. Pain flashed through her arms, only for a moment. Tears dwelling in her eyes, she wrapped the warm fabric around her. She sat on the floor, gaze empty and staring into the void. She felt numb, so numb. Where had the joy gone? She wanted it back, she needed it back.  
“Masquerade! Paper faces on parade. Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you!”


	8. Chapter 8

A knock on the door. Why? Couldn’t they leave her alone for a single minute? Did they always have to treat her like a little child in need of guidance? Perhaps they wouldn’t, if she stopped behaving like one. Afraid of everything, not strong enough to bear the assassins’ blade. She was a disgrace to the entire Brotherhood, the weakest link. If she was to be caught by the enemy, her kind would not see daylight ever again. They would vanish from earth’s surface. If she vanished though, they would be safe.  
  
“Aurélie!” Vincent, he had entered her chambers. It was him who had knocked. Worry gracing his voice, he knelt down in front of her, brows knitted together. “What happened?” Knowing how much she detested being touched, especially in such a state, he stayed his hands from her. He simply looked at her, indeed caring for her well-being. The response was mere silence.  
  
What had happened? She didn’t know the answer, didn’t know why her body disobeyed. Was it the place? The time? The loneliness? At least she was lucky enough to have a family, a friend. The ghost had no one, no one but her. And in that moment, she wasn’t keeping his company. How was she supposed to stay hidden from the foe, when her allies were either prey themselves or nothing more than a story? Nobody would be afraid of the Phantom, not unless they saw him. There was a tiny chance of benefitting from the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery never fully explained. A ghost, many people were superstitious these days. And a mask, hiding the face beneath it, so no man or woman could tell who one indeed was.  
  
“Vincent.” Aurélie turned to her oldest friend, a glimpse of hope in her heart. The worry vanished from his face and confusion took its place instead. “Yes?”  
“The Phantom…” She whispered, gaze fixed on the paper flowers on her working desk. “What about it?”  
  
“He could help us putting the assassin hunter to rout. The myths surrounding him. Nobody knows if he’s real, if he’s even human.” Her eyes sparkling, she rose to her feet, glancing at the paper flowers. “Except for you.” She nodded. “Père always says the Templars have a thing for the occult, we can lure them out with that unsolved mystery.” Standing up, Vincent turned towards the window. The storm still raging, there was no end in sight. What else should they have done? For once in her life she was able to help and she was not going to watch the opportunity pass by.  
  
“What do you want to do? Ask him to do you a favour?” The mockery in his voice. Was he making fun of her? Wasn’t he taking her for full? Maybe because she was – unlike him – no assassin, no cold-blooded killer doing whatever they were told to do, obliging without asking questions. Or perhaps he thought she was merely imagining all this, but the clothes, the mask, the music. The truth couldn’t be, mustn’t be denied.  
  
“I…” Aurélie stuttered. Not even her oldest companion, her most trustful friend was on her side. “It was merely a flight of fancy.”  
  
“You will have the chance to prove yourself.” Her head lowered and her fingers digging into the white poet shirt, she closed her eyes in hope Vincent would have disappeared, when she opened them again. “You don’t need to risk your life now.” He was still there, in her bed chambers. Worrying and scolding her at the same time. She had thought he was different, she had wished for him to be different, but why was he to blame. Born an assassin, raised an assassin and presumably die an assassin. Nothing more than a shadow, it was her fate to tell the stories, not to be a part of them.  
  
“I will accompany you tomorrow.” Confusion flashed over her features, as she looked up and saw him opening the window. “If it ever stops raining.” Why would he refuse her suggestions, her ideas, yet help her follow something, somebody only existing in legends? He was a mystery, the young man in front of her.  
  
“Thank you.” She whispered. Assuming he hadn’t heard it, she turned away from him. “No need to thank me, Aurélie.” A cheeky smirk on his lips he leaned back against the wall, arms crossed in front of his chest. “But promise me to take care.”  
  
“I will.”

* * *

 

The ancient grandfather clock in the hallway stroke twelve, when Aurélie snuck out of her room, a basket covered with a white piece of fabric, hiding the paper flowers beneath, down the stairs and into the auditorium. The small but mighty stage seamed with crimson red curtains and the most recent scenery, a tall shadow stood in the middle. She flinched, before noticing who was, in fact, hiding in plain sight. The giggles were awfully familiar.  
  
“I’m your angel of music.” He was certainly no talent, everything but a talent. Screeching like a dying cat, Vincent jumped off, his royal blue assassin robe making him look like a peacock courting a peahen. Where was the peahen though? “Why aren’t you laughing?” Why should she be laughing? He made fun of the one who had saved her life. Suddenly it dawned on her, she hadn’t told him yet, too ashamed she had been. Nobody should learn of any events happening beneath the Opéra Garnier, she decided. It would be her little secret.  
  
“Wait!” The young man indicated her to stay where she was, vanishing in the gloomy hallway leading to the dining room. What was he up to? Had he forgotten something? Had he decided to withdraw from their adventure? “I can’t let you go without a proper vase.” Appearing behind her in the twinkling of an eye, he held out a white vase, richly ornamented, golden vines twinging around it, out to her. “That’s…” It didn’t belong to him, but to his mother. She adored her porcelain and guarded it like a hen guarding its chicks. If she found out about this…  
  
“I know. I’ll tell her, I broke it while fending off an intruder.” How could he have the courage to lie to his very own mother about one of her most precious belongings? Where did it come from? “You don’t have to do this, Vincent.” He simply shrugged. “It’s for a noble cause.” Noble cause? Did he indeed believe in the Phantom, or was he trying to make her shut up? She had talked too much, mentioned the opera ghost too often. He thought she had gone mad. And he was probably not the only one thinking this. Maniac, madwoman, lunatic. That’s what they would call her. All newspapers, all the cafés, entire Paris would soon know her. She would be a celebrity in no time and people would come to see her, watch her, like a tiger in a cage, scared and broken, waiting for death to take it to heaven, or rather hell?  
  
“Are you ready to go?” Was she ready? Ready to leave the safest space for assassins and their allies? She had no idea. Fear had always dominated her life, her mind and thinking. Sometimes she could barely trust her own senses, not to mention her gut feeling, but she hadn’t been afraid yesterday. She hadn’t been afraid, because the ghost had taken the place of fear and gave her the courage she needed. What was different this time?  
  
Nodding, she tightened her grip around the basket and stepped outside. The rain had stopped, little lakes scattered all over the cobblestones, the moons image glimmering in them. “Bonsoir, Madame Lune.” Aurélie breathed, gaze on the celestial body sitting enthroned in the sky, surrounded by fuzzy clouds. Had the Phantom ever seen this breath-taking beauty? After all he resided beneath the opera, not above. He had shown her the music of the night and she was to show him its beauty. His beauty, the beauty underneath.


	9. Chapter 9

A rather strange atmosphere lied over the city of Paris. For usual there were people, in taverns, in brothels, somewhere. This night though, it was dauntingly calm and almost entirely silent. Merely the rats in the streets squeaked every now and then. How much she hated silence, to her it was a warning, foreseeing events leading to pain and suffering. Like that day all those years ago.  
  
Vincent close behind her, she took one step after another. Where was the secret entrance the Phantom had shown her? A natural tunnel, not built by man, but nature. Hidden behind bushes, rose bushes. She had been surprised by how little the thorns had hurt her. A scratch on her hand, not more.  
  
“Where are you going?” He grabbed her wrist, not wanting her to wander off as it seemed. A shiver running down her spine, she turned around to face her companion. Should she be honest with him? Tell him the truth? She did trust him, with her life in fact and yet she wasn’t sure what path to follow. Would he keep it to himself? So far he had been on her side, claimed the clothes were his and he even swore to lie about the vase.  
  
She took a deep breath. “The ghost, he…there’s another way in. A way unknown to those who roam the underground at night.” Too dark to be able to see anything besides his silhouette, she blinked. Was surprise the reason for his silent response? Or rather worry?  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Why hadn’t she told him? She refused to let anyone invade the Phantom’s kingdom without an announcement. Walking through the channels, the steps, the splashes when jumping into the water, he heard it. They had always come from the channels, but never from the tunnel as far as she could tell. He confided in her, in such a short period of time. Maybe because she had shown him her vulnerability. Maybe because they were both marked.  
  
“I…I wanted to protect him.”  
  
“From whom?” She shrugged. How was she supposed to know? A voice in her head had told her, was it her conscience? Whoever had descended into his kingdom, they had destroyed it. His precious organ, no music sounding from it anymore. The little furniture he possessed, graced with traces of violence and anger. If anybody besides her and Vincent knew of his whereabouts? The Opéra Garnier was currently rebuilt and no one seemed to care about the ghost living beneath. They thought he was gone, had vanished. How wrong they were.  
  
“Don’t follow me.” Aurélie said, gaze fixed on the rose bushes in front of her, before turning around slowly. “Promise me-“  
  
“I will take care. I will be cautious.”  
  
“Stay where everybody can see you, surround yourself with people and trust no one.” Intentionally or not, she couldn’t tell, he took her hands and squeezed them softly, making her flinch. “Nothing will happen, Aurélie. I have enough weapons to fight an army, what can one man do?” A well-intended attempt to calm her. A well-intended attempt based on touch. Taking a step back, she retrieved her hands, holding them close to her chest. Vincent noticed the tenseness in her body and lowered his head. “Forgive me.”  
  
Silence. Silence followed by footsteps coming closer and closer. Handing over the vase, he looked around and sent her one last reassuring glance, before becoming one with the shadows.  
  
Apace she fought her way through the bushes, a thorn cutting her cheek. Biting on her tongue to supress any noise, she walked further, entering the tunnel leading to the cave. It burned, the cut. A similar pain to that she had felt, when the scars on her skin came into existence, but in contrast to the latter it was bearable.  
  
“Angel of music, guide and guardian. Grant to me your glory.” She sang silently, after having walked a few minutes. Only the Phantom was supposed to hear her and she eagerly waited for an answer. What a strange ritual. It made her heart race; joy, excitement spreading in her mind. It made her genuinely happy. How long had it been since she had last felt so many emotions at once? And there was no sign of fear. No shaking, no tears, no aching chest.  
  
“Wandering child, so lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance.” His voice, his mesmerizing voice. “Angel! I hear you, speak - I listen. Stay by my side, guide me!” Her legs, they moved faster without her intention, her body had taken control and her mind was merely a watcher. A light, at the end of the tunnel there was a soft light. Holding the basket close, she reached out a hand to grasp the curtain and took a step.  
  
The ghost, he turned to her the moment she walked in, both glee and surprise spreading over his face. She made out a slight smile on his lips. He seemed to be glad about her return. “I gave you my word and I never break a promise.” Aurélie said, her eyes following his every movement. Unlike the day prior there was a certain aura surrounding him. Confidence. It was confidence, she realised. Was it the fact she was still wearing his clothes? The reason behind her decision to do so was simple, she needed her own back, although the cloak was ridiculously comfortable.  
  
“I never doubted you, little bird.” What had he called her? Little bird? Unsure of how to respond, she knitted her brows and averted her gaze. Noticing her discontent, he softened his voice, before stepping closer. “Masquerade! Paper faces on parade. Masquerade!”  
  
“Hide your face so the world will never find you!” Mere inches apart, he looked at her in awe. His eyes, his beautiful eyes sparkling in the candle light, they did not let go of her. It was only when a blush crept on her cheeks, she lowered her head and the basket in her hands caught her attention. She had forgotten it, how stupid of her.  
  
“I…” Stuttering, she stroke a strand of auburn hair out of her face. “I wanted to apologise.” Confusion appeared on the ghost’s face, as she raised her gaze. He glanced at the basket, eyebrows furrowed and seemingly intimidated. Cautiously she grasped the white piece of fabric and pulled it away, revealing the paper flower bouquet.  
  
Stumbling backwards, he crashed into a candelabrum and knocked it off the plateau. With a splash it landed in the lake, both him and Aurélie flinching. Was he afraid of something? Had she done something wrong? Again? It wouldn’t be the first time to have failed gloriously, neither the last. She had a talent for failing, it was the only one worth mentioning. As an assassin, cunning and slyness were of advantage, but artistic skills. How useless they were.  
  
Having recovered, he sat down on the stairs carved into the stone. “Why?” He didn’t dare to look at her. This sight, his shaking voice, it saddened her. Taking a deep breath, she slowly stepped forward and stood herself in front of him. She put down the basket and lifted out the bouquet. “I had no intention to steal from you.”  
  
Holding it close at first, she eventually placed it on the nearest table. “And I…I wanted to thank you for…for lending me your attire.” Silence. His confidence had vanished as fast as it had appeared. Put an end to this misery, her greatest desire. She may not have been able to support the Brotherhood the way she would have loved to, but the ghost, there was a chance to aid him. Nobody seemed to care about him, the lost soul, the broken child, the fallen angel.  
  
“The flowers…they…there’s a meaning to each of them.” Biting her lower lip, she brushed over one of them. “The Snowdrop. A symbol of hope. The Peony, shows compassion. And the Freesia…it’s my favourite in fact.”  
  
“They’re beautiful.” She hadn’t noticed him, hadn’t heard any footsteps, but he suddenly stood behind her. He was so close, the heat radiating from him. If she hadn’t been afraid of being touched, she would have leaned back. If she hadn’t been a coward, she would have turned around to face him.  
  
“Like you, fallen angel.” A whisper, not more. A whisper seemingly melting away all the doubts and fears.  
  
“This face, which earned a mother’s fear and loathing…” She glanced up, her eyes following the ghost. Tears, streaming over his cheeks. His hand, carefully taking hers. She flinched, and in a mere second her body tensed up. The Phantom, he didn’t let go, but stepped closer and tilted his head slightly, leading her palm to his face. Soft, his skin was soft and warm. His gaze lingered on her, the one who had seen the beauty underneath his deformity.  
  
Panic rising in her mind, her heart started racing and her scars, the pain. Why was her body, her mind fighting against his touch? She had desired it and yet it caused her to crumble, to tumble. Her knees gave in, but the ghost, he caught her in time. Sitting down on the floor, he held her, comforted her. She hated herself for not enjoying this, for wanting to run and never stop. Aurélie wasn’t afraid of him, she could never be afraid of the one sharing her sorrow. In his presence she felt real, felt whole. Next to him she wasn’t a failed assassin, a shame to her bloodline. She was free. “Thank you.” He hummed, as she rested her forehead on his chest.  
  
“Thank you for bringing back my music.”


	10. Chapter 10

Aurélie had no idea how much time had passed, when the ghost rose to his feet and held out a hand for her to take. Clutching at it, she was pulled up and almost stumbled over a nearby candelabrum. Embarrassed by the lack of control over her own body, she averted her gaze, biting her lower lip.  
  
“What’s your name, little bird?” She sat down on the stool in front of the organ, crossing her legs and resting her hands on top of them. “I will tell you, if you tell me yours.” What a bold move, she hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t considered it thoroughly. Her tongue had been faster than her mind.  
  
A smirk, it plugged on the corner of his lips, and yet there was a piteous glimmer in his eyes. “Nobody has ever asked for my name.” A storm raging in his mind, even though he tried his best to hide it, she noticed. She always noticed people’s discontent, when mind and body weren’t consonant. She had learned to read faces, to look behind the mask they wore. No need for words, for lies and excuses for she saw the truth.  
  
“I am nobody.” She was somehow proud of that play of words, for usual she kept such things to herself, too afraid of being judged. He wouldn’t judge her though, not the ghost, not the Phantom.  
  
“Erik.” Turning away, he muttered his response quietly. Didn’t he like his own name? Perhaps he was not used to getting called by it. After all he was a mere myth.  
“Aurélie.” Holding out a hand, an invitation to take a seat next to her, she smiled softly. “Aurélie Dorian.” Hesitating at first, he followed her silent plea and accidentally stepped on the cloak, making it slip from her shoulders, revealing her scars. A strange, indefinable feeling spread over her body, when his fingers stroke over them carefully. No flinching, no wincing.  
  
Closing her eyes, she felt how Erik pushed aside the few strands of hair which had found a way to freedom from her pinned up braid. His touch was soft, almost that of a feather. “Who did this to you?” He asked, a hint of anger in his voice. “I…” The memories dared to surface again, but this time they would not break through. “Masquerade! Paper faces on parade. Masquerade!”  
  
“Hide your face, so the world will never find you.” Tears dwelling in her eyes, a sad smile flashed over her face. Lost in thought, the ghost humming the melody to calm her down, she let her gaze wander. The mask, the beautiful white porcelain mask on top of a stack of music sheets, it reminded her of the idea she had had earlier. The idea which was dismissed as a mere phantasm. “How did you make it, your mask?”  
  
“Why do you ask, little bird?” Retrieving his hands, she turned towards him. “My people…my family…they’re in great danger. I can’t fight that danger, I never could, but I thought tricking the enemy might protect them.”  
  
“Your people?” How was he supposed to know who her people were? The assassins, they were shadows, echoes of death. A society created millennia ago, its traditions, its tenets, its creed almost as old as humanity itself. Many born into the Brotherhood became excellent assassins, Masters and even Mentors. Others, fate had brought to them, young men and women willing to give their life for freedom, but also children and elders. Juliette had killed her first target at the age of fourteen, a souteneur beating the girls at his brothel, some of them younger than herself. Unlike her sister whose calling was to help and protect the harlots and urchins on the street, Aurélie had never laid a finger on anybody. She believed, walking this path was too high a toll. She had already lost herself once and in the end she would only be an obstacle in the way leading to success. She may have been a Dorian, but she was no assassin.  
  
“It is…” Sighing, she drew circles on her thigh, something she was always did when thinking. Erik was trustful as far as she could tell and he had spent years roaming through the opera, his opera, without any contact to the outside world. Of course, he had written those infamous notes which had made it into the newspapers, but allies, he had none. None besides her. If she was to explain, not to lie, she would break one of the three tenets. Never compromise the Brotherhood. Yet as she had never been an actual member, these tenets did not apply to her. No secrets, no mysteries. Only the bare truth.  
  
“I was born into a secret society, the Assassin Brotherhood. My ancestors were assassins, my grandparents, my parents, my sister and…I was supposed to become one as well, but…I wasn’t strong enough, not cunning enough, not-not fast enough.” Tears dwelled in her eyes, her fingers digging into the white shirt she was wearing. “Those scars were a warning to my family. A chain is only as strong as its weakest link.” Her chest aching, her hands shaking, she stared into the void. She was sick of it, of the pain, the fear, the loneliness. Her life had no meaning, she had no calling. “You, Erik, you have your music. Your beautiful, breath-taking music. I…I have nothing. I-I…I am nothing.”  
  
“Wandering child, so lost, so helpless. Yearning for my guidance.” His right hand, it cupped her face and for some reason, she didn’t know why, she leaned into his touch. Hers followed, slowly, gently stroking his and taking hold of it, before she closed her eyes.  
  
“Angel, oh speak. What endless longings echo in this whisper?”  
  
“Too long you’ve wandered in winter.”  
  
“Far from your fathering gaze.” She could feel his breath, his hot breath on her neck and she enjoyed it. The voice of reason, she locked it into a dark room and threw away the key. Fear, at this very moment it was nothing but an echo of the past. “Wildly my mind beats against you.”  
  
“Yet the soul obeys.” Casting up her eyes, they sang in unison and music filled the cave. Beautiful music. Breath-taking music.  
  
The look on his face, it was joy. Pure joy. The fallen angel had regained his will to compose, his passion to create, he had regained his wings. Had she caused this? Or was this all a dream? A phantasy? An illusion? A trick of her own mind? This couldn’t be real, it was mere imagination. There had never been a ghost, a Phantom, a man behind the mask. Erik was what she wanted him to be, luck would never be on her side, fate would never act in her favour.  
  
No word, no sound. A rope around her neck, tightening. She had the urge to scream, to cry. Her mouth was dry and all in the sudden a veil laid over her gaze. Air. She needed cold, fresh air. Not being able to wait any longer, Aurélie broke away from him, stumbling and knocking off the vase. “No, no, no…” She could not look at him, she didn’t dare to look at him.  
  
Without wasting another thought, she ran. She ran through the tunnel, tears streaming down her face, blinded by panic. The rose bushes, their thorns tore apart her sleeve, the white fabric soaked with blood. Where should she go? Where could she go? Return home, giving away her secret, putting Erik in danger? No. She would have preferred death over betrayal. He deserved better, he deserved the world, an audience listening to his mesmerising melodies.  
  
A shadow, accompanied by a rustle. Somebody was watching her. Instinctively her hand clutched at the hilt of her sword, ready to strike at any moment. She remembered. She remembered how she had attempted to fight the ones taking her, the ones hurting her. She remembered how they had laughed at her, the fierce little girl trying to oppose several grown men. Her head ached, her head throbbed. Why couldn’t this stop? Why wouldn’t it stop? What was wrong with her?  
  
“Ts, ts, ts.” The shadow, it stepped closer and in the soft moonlight, a face, nightmarishly familiar. “What is a young lady like you doing out here in the middle of the night? It is dangerous.” That smirk, that impish and evil smirk. She knew it, she had seen it before. It was etched in her mind, but whom did it belong to?  
  
“Don’t you remember me, little lamb?”


	11. Chapter 11

The man in front of her, lean and almost a head taller, cheekbones sharp and defined, eyes black as his soul. His skin was dark as far as she could tell, dark yet lighter than Vincent’s. Where did he come from? He had no accent giving some indication of this matter, he looked so foreign and familiar at the same time.  
  
“How disappointing.” Raising an eyebrow, he glanced at her, before pulling out a handkerchief and a sword. Turning his gaze to the blade, he polished it with leisure. What was this? A sick joke? What was this supposed to achieve? Intimidate her? Frighten her?  
  
Despite the trembling, she held her strong position. Fear crawled up her bare shoulders and a shiver ran down her spine. Couldn’t the stranger disappear? Leave her in peace? What had she done to him and why did he claim to know her?  
  
“I thought one last chat would be appropriate, for old time’s sake.” One last chat? He was planning to kill her. Within a moment, she realised who stood in front of her. His voice, the mocking tone in his voice. He was the one who had hurt her, who had taken her, who had attempted to end her life. He was the assassin hunter.   
  
Where was Vincent? Was he alright? Had he been hurt? Had he already fallen prey to that monster?  
  
It was anger, not anguish filling her mind. “The Persian.” She hissed. They had called him by that name, his allies, his fellow Templars. Nothing was known about him, he was merely a myth. Like the Phantom. This was the reason why nobody had ever managed to find out about her tormenter’s true identity, why nobody had ever taken revenge upon him. If only she could have killed him, killed the abomination that had stolen her courage and had replaced it with fear. If she had had the strength, the skills. Slitting his throat wouldn’t have been enough, she wanted him to share her pain, feel the oil streaming down his body, the flames dancing on his skin.  
  
Blind with rage, Aurélie drew her sword and thrusted it into his abdomen. Fate not being on her side, he simply sidestepped and thus dodged her attack. A dance. A dance of death. Every hit, every step, all for naught. The lack of skills, the lack of emotional control, it made her weak and inferior. “Don’t hurt yourself with that sharp blade of yours.” He mocked her, ridiculed her. She was the child he believed her to be. A child not knowing what it was doing, a child lost in its greatest nightmare. She shouldn’t have left her home, she shouldn’t have left the Café Théâtre, she shouldn’t have run away.  
  
An impish grin on his lips, he stepped closer and disarmed her with a blow to her hand. Clenching her teeth, she clutched it to her chest, trying to stop the bleeding. She looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. This was nothing compared to what he had done to her that fateful day. “You will never fulfil your mission, for I’m no sacrificial lamb.” The Persian laughed at her, his sword only inches from her throat. “Today I’ll finish, what I started years ago and you cannot stop me!” Grabbing her elbow, he threw her to the ground, launching for the final strike.  
  
“If you dare to touch her, it will be your end.” That voice. That mesmerising voice. Raising her gaze, Erik stood in front of her. No. The Phantom stood in front of her, aided her. The porcelain mask, it covered half of his face and his hair, black and slicked back. So handsome. The clothes, his cloak, the crimson jacket embroidered with rich patterns. A mysterious yet intimidating aura surrounded him.  
  
“Who are you?” Her tormenter spit, his plans had been thwarted. “I’m the ghost haunting you ‘til you’re dead.” A quiet chuckle echoed through the streets and it was not the Phantom’s. “Do you think your attire scares me? I have seen the dead, lifeless bodies of my comrades on the battlefield, their heads ripped off, their broken bones piercing through their skin, the ground soaked with blood.” Furious, that’s what he was. While his first few words were spoken calmly and collected, he became more furious with every example, with every painful memory. What had he been through? Attention on his opponent, the Persian didn’t notice Aurélie picking herself up. Under favour of night she sneaked past him, the man beneath the mask stepping sideways to cover her moving silhouette.  
  
“I have seen hell itself. There’s nothing able to frighten me.”  
  
“Not even the devil’s son?” Anger in his voice and yet there’s was this strange undertone, sorrow and pain. The ghost was trying to intimidate him, to terrify him. A mere diversion? An opportunity for her to attack, to fight back? She needed to take the chance, what if it was the only one?  
  
Cautiously she reached for her sword, his cloak always hiding her from her tormenters view. Closing her fingers around the hilt, she quietly whispered two words. “Step aside!” The Phantom followed her request, her plea in an instant and cleared the way for her. In the blink of an eye her blade had met the Persian’s cheek, leaving a deep cut and making him drop his weapon.  
  
Stumbling back, he took hold of a nearby light post. Slowly he raised his head, glaring at Aurélie. Together they walked forward, closer to their enemy, when he suddenly turned to the ghost and stared at him in shock. “T-The Sage.”  
  
“The what?” Within a moment he had collected himself, grabbed his sword and put it back into its sheath, before nodding. “I wasted the last seventeen years with chasing after something meaningless. Chasing after a child, a child that is a danger to itself. But now…now I can finally fulfil my calling. It was an honour to have met you, Mademoiselle Dorian.” The last sentence barely having left his lips, he vanished into the darkness of nightly Paris.  
  
An eternity passed, before the ghost turned to her. His eyes wandered over her body, making her look away in embarrassment. How stupid of her. How pathetic and ridiculous. Her hand, the bleeding had stopped and yet the pain had not disappeared with her attacker. Her actions had forced him to leave his sanctuary, to become the Phantom once more. Only when she felt his fingers – embraced by black leather - softly stroking over her jaw, did she raise her gaze. No sign of anger or worry in his face, rather relief. Relief that she was still alive and more or less well.  
  
“Don’t you ever run from me again, little bird.” He took her injured hand in his and considered it thoroughly. “I don’t want you to break your wings.”  
  
“They’re already broken, Erik.” A sad smile plucked on the corner of her mouth. “What is a bird without its wings?” The tears, they dared to break through again. Her lips trembling, she closed her eyes. Her tormenter had admitted her being a waste of time. Not even her enemy thought she was worth the effort. Why would an ally think any different?  
  
Silently, without speaking a single word, he walked past her towards the secret entrance. She had neither the energy, nor the will to follow him. There was no point in doing so. He had given her up like all the people before him. A bird without wings, a bird not being able to fly, to explore the sky. Would anything change if she vanished? If she left Paris for a place that hadn’t caught her in its grasp, its violent and dolorous grasp. No assassin would be lost, no freedom fighter, nobody who could make a difference.  
  
“Aurélie.” She twirled around to see the ghost holding out a hand for her, he had waited. “Have you forgotten your angel?” The fallen angel, the broken child, the lost soul. “M-My angel?” Stuttering, she knitted her brows. There was a meaning to it, but which? Was it a sign of trust? Was her mind playing tricks on her again?  
  
Hesitating at first, she stepped forwards and took his offer, a faint yet sweet smile on her lips. He did his best to keep the thorns from ripping her clothes and cutting her skin, wrapping his cloak around her being the only way. How gladly he gave up his own protection for her to stay unharmed. There was this strange feeling spreading in her stomach, over her back and shoulders, into her limbs. It was as fear had been defeated and curiosity had taken its place, curiosity and joy and courage.  
“The fallen angel…my fallen angel.”


	12. Chapter 12

She flinched at the touch of a wet and icy cold piece of fabric. Erik tended her wounds with such caution, he must have thought of her as a fragile porcelain doll. The clean water in the bowl, it came from a spring in the cave, well-hidden behind a curtain, and the cloth strips had once been a dress of some sort. This was not the first time he had treated injuries as he exactly knew what to do and how to do it. If he had taught it himself during all the years living beneath the opera?  
  
“Forgive me, Erik.” Aurélie whispered, embarrassment gracing her delicate features. Part of her mind hoped he hadn’t heard her. Why, she didn’t know. Sometimes her own mind was the greatest mystery in her pathetic life. A war raging between two different emotions, between the past and the future.  
  
Biting her lower lip, she glanced at him. He looked so different in the Phantom’s attire, confident and somewhat frightening for one could not tell what lied beneath the mask. An effective way to hide his true identity and to create a ghost story.  
  
When he raised his head, she averted her gaze in an instant. His fingers found their way to her jaw, to her chin and turned her to meet his eyes. Two colours instead of one, she had never seen such strange beauty before. A soft expression in them, a loving expression she dared to think. Was he fond of her? Despite their brief acquaintance, they shared a bond of deepest trust. Trust built upon music, his music.  
  
“Angel of music…”  
  
“I am your angel of music.” He was truly an angel; his voice alone, it made her believe she was in heaven and she had no urge to return to the mortals’ realm. She could have died in that moment and she wouldn’t have cared a bit, for the fallen angel’s melodies were rejoicing her heart. No fear, no pain.  
  
Her hand, bandaged and unaching, wandered from her lap to his chest and over his neck to his cheek. He leaned into her touch, a slight smile plucking on the corner of his lips. Eyes closed, he hummed the song which had called him to her.  
  
“Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation.” She sang quietly, gaze fixed on the Phantom in front of her. How peaceful. How beautiful. The ghost, he was not any less breath-taking than Erik, merely mysterious and elegant. Why was he still hiding beneath the opera, after all what had happened? After all he had gone through? His tools destroyed, his soul shattered, he was left alone. Neither death nor life granting him a wish. “Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defences.”  
  
She felt how he closed in, wrapping his arm around her waist. She could hear his heartbeat and …..his scent, his intoxicating scent. Dusty old books, pomegranate and a hint of ink. What a strange combination. What a unique combination, even mesmerising she dared to think. Everything about him was mesmerising. His voice, his eyes, his lips. His lips. Had anybody ever kissed them, ever claimed them for oneself?  
  
Licking over hers, she shifted slightly and retrieved her hand, making him open his eyes and staring at her in panic. Did he think, she was refusing him, his touch, his proximity? She could never have refused him. Not him, not the Phantom, not Erik. He was the only one not to see her as a failure, a burden. Beside him she was no failed assassin, no Dorian, she didn’t need to be something she was clearly not. He had shown her the face beneath the mask, the beauty underneath and so did she. She showed him what no other had ever been able to see. The brave, the courageous, the curious.  
  
“I…”  
  
“Don’t leave!” His plea, it tugged at her heart strings, made her chest ache. The loneliness, the cruelty of the world, in his eyes. “I cannot stay for too long, my fallen angel. You must stay hidden, you must stay a secret. I don’t know what would happen, if…if my people learned of you.”  
  
Clenching his teeth, he pulled her into a tight embrace, resting his head on her shoulder. There were tears streaming down his cheeks and over her skin.  
A Dorian always finds a way. Her precious mémère had found one too. What would she have done? She would have fought. For herself, for her family, but mostly for the assassins. The devotion of a master, only broken by personal vendetta. It was her who had searched for her granddaughter’s tormentor, for the Persian. She had searched until her last breath. The same blood ran through their veins. Why should Aurélie not be able to fight, not for the assassins, but for…for what in fact? For Erik? For her mémère? For both of them or for none?  
  
Lost in thought, she entangled her fingers in his hair, massaging his scalp carefully. Was it to calm him down? To calm herself down? She didn’t know, she simply didn’t know. It was as a little voice in her head, it had told her to. How useful this little voice was, sometimes. Only very few times in fact. Mostly it reminded her of her imperfection, her weakness and her inability to be a worthy successor of her father. At least there was Juliette, she would take over his role as Master assassin. Not everyone can go down in history. Some are merely life’s background actors.  
  
“Think of me…think of me fondly, when we say goodbye.”  
  
“No!” Erik breathed, tightening his grip around her. Was he afraid of the loneliness which had been his closest companion ever since? For once in her life she wasn’t afraid of something, she had accepted her fate a long time ago. The Phantom, the ghost on the other hand seemed to hold onto the dreams, the music, although he had refused them the night prior. What if she had caused this? No. It couldn’t be. How insolent to think of such a thing, how absurd.  
  
“Erik.” Raising his head, he looked at her with pleading eyes, as a soft smile plucked on the corner of her mouth. “I gave you my word I’d return and I was true to it, but I can’t stay. I wish I could.” Letting go of her and straightening his posture, he nodded. “If the little bird desires to leave, it should do so.”  
  
“Angel of music…” Brows furrowed, he took her hand and lead it to the mask covering his face. “Take it, so I can watch over you, protect you from the ones wanting to harm you.”  
  
“You want to trick him?” She whispered, fascinated by how he shared her ideas, how the exact same plan occurred in his mind. “Yet he said I wouldn’t matter anymore. H-He even called me a waste of time, but you…”  
  
“Aurélie.” Staring at him in confusion, she bit her lower lip, being slightly embarrassed by her demeanour. She felt a blush creep up her cheeks, whenever her name snuck over his lips. It was then she noticed his rather strange accent, not French, not English, not German. Charming and somehow exotic, only while talking it came through though. This man, this Phantom was truly a mystery. So fascinating and his music, mesmerising and full of emotions and hidden messages. What a shame it would never see broad daylight. Unless…  
  
“I know how. How I can show the world your music, without exposing you.” Jumping to her feet, she twirled around and suddenly she was alive. She had found a way, like her father, like her mémère, like all her predecessors. Perhaps her calling was this, to take the people into a land of hopes and dreams, where the unseen genius would finally receive the recognition he so desperately desired and deserved. “The Café Théâtre.”  
  
“The Café Théâtre?” Arising, he stood himself next to her, a questioning expression on his face. “My aunt is the artistic director.” It dawned on him and within a moment his eyes lit up, only for disbelief to take the place of joy. He couldn’t quite believe what she was willing to do for him, it seemed.  
  
A bright grin gracing her features, she stepped closer and looked up. “We can perform at the masquerade my family arranges every year.”  
  
“We?” Horror. Pure horror. What had happened to frighten him so much? Such an opportunity, it could save him from his life in isolation, from his solitude. Nobody would dread him, for he stood on her side. Trust. Deep trust. Nothing would tear this bond, not even the Assassin Brotherhood. “Teach me. Teach me everything you know and we can show the world your true beauty. The beauty beneath the mask, beneath the fear.”  
  
Turning from her, he walked down the stairs, his hand resting on the cave’s wall. Why was he refusing it, refusing her? Wasn’t she good enough? Not strong enough? Not cunning enough? Not fast enough? Those thoughts, those fears, haunting her mind. Again and again and again. What had she done to deserve this? The pain, the sorrow, the screaming voice in her head. Always screaming, no moment of silence, of joy, of love.  
“Sing!” Mémère had said. “Sing, Aurélie.”


	13. Chapter 13

“Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defences.” She stepped forward and the stone plateau she was standing on suddenly became a stage. “Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendour, grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender.” Hands clutched to her chest and muscles tense, her voice was trembling. Aurélie couldn’t bear to look at him, to let her mind wander and distract herself from the mesmerising tunes she was singing.  
  
“Turn your face away from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light and listen to the music of the night.” Another step forward and with each one she gained more courage. Perhaps his music could indeed work miracles.  
  
“Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams. Purge your thoughts of the life you know before. Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar.” When she hit the last high note, a strange feeling spread all over her body, streamed through her veins, filled her lungs. Was she flying? What was this magic? This indescribable power possessing her soul?  
  
In all of the sudden there were hands on her waist, making her flinch, yet she stayed where she was instead of turning around and facing the man in the mask.   
  
“Straighten your posture and chin up.” Following suit, Aurélie continued singing and noticed how the tension vanished in an instant. She relaxed, lowered her arms and concentrated on her breathing. “And you’ll live as you’ve never lived before.” His breath, it tingled her skin, her neck. She did her best to suppress a giggle.  
  
“Softly, deftly, music shall caress you.” Hands, his hands, they wandered upwards; she felt his touch through the fabric of her, of his shirt. “Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you. Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind, in this darkness that you know you cannot fight. The darkness of the music of the night.” It brought her comfort, the darkness, his darkness. No one could see her scars, the proof of her weakness. No one, except for Erik, for the ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask. He looked beneath them, beneath the embodiment of her fear and only her fallen angel was able to heal her broken wings, with his music. His breath-taking, mesmerising music. Oh how much she adored it, how much she craved it.  
  
“Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world. Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before. Let your soul take you were you long to be.” “Only then can you belong to me.”  
  
“I already belong to you, Erik.” She muttered, a blush creeping up her cheeks. Cautiously he took her hands in his and closed the little space that was left between them. “Your soul belongs to me.”  
  
“It does.” Leaning into his touch, she tilted her head back slightly and rested it on his shoulder. “And your voice…”  
  
“I’m your messenger, Erik. Your mask, your voice.” Slowly she turned around, after having freed herself from his tight embrace. That soft expression, the fascination and even a hint of joy. “Let’s show the world your true genius, together.” Insecurity glimmered in his eyes, fear she dared to think and yet it seemed as he was indeed considering it. Brows furrowed and gaze averted, he opened his mouth but no word escaped his lips.  
  
“Angel of music, hide no longer.” Cupping his face, she turned him to her and simply smiled. “Secret and strange angel.” His chest heaving, his heart racing, she noticed it. The tension, the anguish, the urge to run. How well she knew those feelings. How often they had kept her in a cage, locked in and the key thrown into the Seine. Where had his confidence gone?  
  
“A masquerade you said?” Trying to regain his posture, he took a step back, breaking away from her and yet his voice was still trembling. Whatever he had seen, the memories still haunted him. Much like hers. And yet after all the pain and suffering, he was able to see the beauty of the night, the darkness, the beauty others refused. Neither of them belonged in the world they had been born in.  
  
“Yes. There will be members of the Brotherhood, friends and allies. It’s far smaller than those in the opera, but the guests enjoy themselves nonetheless.” At the age of six she had last attended the masquerade, dressed as a magpie. Back then, when her guardian angel hadn’t abandoned her yet, she was a skilful thief. Fruits, pocket watches, toys and sweets, nothing was safe from _la pie_. Cheeky, impetuous and unafraid she had been. Unless solitude embraced her, with her friends left her courage, with her mémère died her bravery. Together they were stronger, the little girl was fully aware of this. Everybody could become an ally, as long as one knows how to make them an ally. And how talented she had been, how easy it had been to convince strangers to lend her a hand. After that fateful day though, fear took over the wheel of the ship that was her soul, sailing over the sea of thoughts and memories.  
  
The masquerade, it had become a dreadful experience, mask and costumes, people hiding behind them. What if her tormentor was one of the many guests? If he planned to end her life? Quickly? Slowly? Nobody would ever make her attend it ever again, unless…  
  
“I was still a child the last time I…I dressed up and joined my family. I don’t know if it has changed over the years...” Biting her lower lip and drawing circles on her palm, she glanced at him. Did she even possess an attire appropriate for the occasion? Dresses, they barely covered her shoulders, the delicate parts of her body.   
  
What about a tail-coat? Her father was surely able to spare one for her, his slim physique though. Juliette could have worn it, she resembled him in many ways.  
  
“I wouldn’t know what to wear. I wouldn’t know what to do, but the world needs to know. Know about your music, your genius, your…”  
  
“I will attend, but only if you stay by my side at all times.” Knitting her eyebrows, she looked at him in confusion. Why would he demand such a thing? She had never had in mind to leave him alone, not in her dreams could she do this. Didn’t he trust her? “Only then can I guarantee your safety.”  
  
“My safety?” Was he afraid of losing her? Was he afraid of her being hurt? Did she mean so much to him? Such flummery. He was merely a gentleman; the Phantom was nothing more than a decent and polite man. A very gentle and beautiful, decent and polite man. And his music, his voice, his genius. “My muse must stay unharmed.” Stepping closer, he took her hand in his and planted a soft kiss on its back. “Your muse…” She whispered, cheeks flushed and an embarrassed smile playing around her lips. Had he, had he called her his muse? The ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask; she was his muse. Being accorded this honour, her heart started racing and suddenly her scars, needles, flames. Why did they burn? What had happened? She was supposed to be full of joy, of pleasure.  
  
He noticed. Erik noticed, looked beneath her mask of serenity. “Aurélie.” He stood not more than an inch away from her, a concerned expression on his face. “I am your Angel of music.” His voice caressed her mind, her soul. Fear stood no chance against it.  
  
Fingers brushing her jaw, she closed her eyes, yearning for his touch, for his skin against hers, for his lips on her neck, her wrist, simply everywhere. Caught in his net, in his spell, she couldn’t escape his grasp, she didn’t want to escape his grasp. Stay here, in his cave, his lair, his kingdom, that’s what she desired. No assassins, no Brotherhood, no Templars, no Order, no killing, no hiding, no crying and screaming, waking up from yet another nightmare. With the Phantom, with Erik by her side there was no need for any of these things.  
  
“Vincent.” Casting up her eyes, her heart skipping a beat, she stared at him in panic. “I forgot him.” She turned away, searching for something, but she didn’t know what. Her sword, it was still in its sheath around her waist. The cloak? Her coat? Her mind spinning, her thoughts flying, Aurélie leaned against the nearest desk.  
  
“Who is Vincent?” That undertone in his voice, was that jealousy? “A friend…a-a brother in arms. He accompanied me here and…I don’t know if he has fallen prey to…to…”  
  
“You should search for him.” Erik said, head lowered and suddenly vanishing behind a curtain. What was he up to now? Quietly, no words spoken, she followed him only to be met with sad eyes. He held her clothes in his arms, neatly folded. “They will keep you warm.” She had forgotten about them, the coat black as night itself, embroidered with the assassin’s emblem and vines twining around the sleeves, the blood red jacket, the white shirt with frills supposed to be tucked into the black trousers.  
  
“Thank you.” She breathed, taking them with gratitude, before starting to undress herself bit by bit. Of course, he had walked off once again, giving her a little privacy to change. This time though she wouldn’t have minded him staying. There was nothing to see besides her scars after all.  
  
He sat at his organ, lost in thought. Stepping closer, her fingers stroke over the keys and once again she heard that beautiful melody. If she could sing it, if there was a way to perform it. “The day starts. The day ends. Time crawls by…” Why was he singing the very melody which had filled her mind a moment earlier? Covering her mouth, she realised she had started humming it without even noticing.  
  
Glancing at her, a sweet and yet sad smile flashed over his lips. “Fly, little bird!” He said. “Fly but remember to return to your fallen angel.”


	14. Chapter 14

Aurélie prayed. Prayed to every god and deity that came to her mind. She could never have forgiven herself, if Vincent had been hurt. Hurt by the very man who had given her wings so many years ago. Panic rising, she hurried through the secret tunnel, Erik’s voice still echoing in her ears. “My muse must stay unharmed.” What had she done to deserve this, the admiration, the adoration? Was this even adoration or only mere imagination? They had met the night prior and yet they knew more about each other than anybody else in the world. Secrets spoken beneath the opera; laments sung in the Phantom’s kingdom. It seemed illusive, so illusive.  
  
How could this be real? How could the ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask take a liking to her, the failed assassin, the broken porcelain doll, the bird with broken wings? Her soul lost in the eternity of fear, of anguish. He was no candle, no star guiding her but the very darkness embracing her. And for once she trusted the darkness. Nobody hiding in it, no predator stalking up on its prey for the darkness, the gloom was her guardian, her protector.  
  
The sun on the edge of the horizon, morning was upon Paris. Had Vincent found shelter? Had he returned to the Café Théâtre? Had he taken care as promised? Worry infected her thoughts,  reasonable worry. She needed to find him, her oldest friend, her most faithful companion. Where though? Unlike her sister, Aurélie did not possess a sixth sense, the so-called “eagle vision”. How helpful it would have been at this very moment.  
  
Looking around, urchins and beggars waking from their slumber, birds striking up their songs, her eyes wandered over the facades and windows, the streets and alleys in hope to find him.  
  
There! A figure strolling down the cobblestone path, seemingly having feasted away the night. The shirt, stains on it. What kind of stains; she did not have the urge to know. Trousers unbuttoned, barely being able to hold onto their owner’s hips. A robe, or was it a coat, thrown over the right shoulder. The skin, his skin; dark mahogany and his lips, a cheeky grin on them.  
  
“Goooooooooooooood morning, petite pie.” Relief took the place of worry, when Vincent staggered towards her, the scent of vine clinging to his clothes. “How was your night?” He spread his arms and waited. Aurélie wasn’t particularly keen on embracing him though, despite the joy to have found him hale and hearty.  
  
She took a step back, averting her gaze. A blush on her cheeks, she could feel it. Should she tell him the truth? That she had faced her tormentor last night, that Erik had protected her, helped her, had tended her wounds and…Shaking her head, she returned back to earth. “I…um…”  
  
“Did he like it? The vase.” How excited he seemed, curious like a child. “And your flowers of course.” Was he mocking her or was this a genuine question? Did he indeed believe her stories about a man so hideous, forced to live in a cave, in a lair beneath the opera? He did not ridicule her, Vincent Dorian, assassin and ladies’ man. To him she was not a child, traumatised and afraid of the big wide world. Perhaps the words and thoughts were merely those of an inebriate, his mind covered by the veil of alcohol. Nonetheless he deserved an answer, an honest answer, since lying was not an option.  
  
“He did. So much that…that a candelabrum fell into the lake.” Biting her lower lip, she glanced up at him, the tall and handsome young man in front of her. Pure confusion on his face, she cleared her throat and whispered. “Erik…he stumbled into it.”  
  
“So the mysterious Phantom of the Opera does indeed have a name.” Despite the impish grin on his lips, there was no sign of mockery.  
  
“You should have seen him, Vincent. The sadness in his eyes, his beautiful eyes. Compassion is a stranger to him and…and yet he saved me. Saved me from the one who has been killing our…your brothers and sisters.” Silent, seemingly not knowing how to respond, he stared at her. A statue, a statue would have moved more than Vincent in this very moment. What was the reason behind this? She had never seen him in such a state. Was it panic? Shock? Anger? Sorrow?  
  
“Y-You found the assassin hunter?” Nodding slowly, Aurélie raised her hand, thrusted aside her sleeve and thus revealed the wound Erik had tended earlier. “He hurt you.”  
  
“I hurt him as well, but not enough to make him pay for what he did to me.” She was shaking, her lips were trembling. How exhausted she was.  
  
“What did he do to you? Do you know him?” The protector in him spoke, the older brother trying to ward his little sister. In the blink of an eye, Vincent turned into the assassin he, in fact, was. No jokes, no kindness, but the cold and icy stare of a killer. “Aurélie!” It scared her, the sudden change, the darker side of her friend. She had never seen it before, this darker side. How even? Besides their name and some memories, they barely shared anything. Who had been his first target? How many had fallen prey to him? What had he done last night? Was the man in front of her, what she believed him to be?  
  
“I-It was the…the Persian.” Her heart beating against her ribcage, she lowered her gaze, wishing for her fallen angel to appear and to take her away. Far away. To his kingdom, where music reigned and where he was king. If only he made her his queen. She would do everything to be granted this honour, but perhaps being his muse could finally set him free from all the pain and sorrow haunting his soul.  
  
“Why didn’t you kill him?” She looked at him; anguish, confusion, bewilderment, everything at once gracing her doll-like features. Why hadn’t she killed her tormentor? How should she have ended his life, barely being able to stand on her feet? She was no fighter, no soldier, no assassin. She was a bird, a bird whose wings were broken and had not yet healed. No eagle, no hawk, no falcon, but a mag pie. A scared little mag pie.  
  
“He said I was a waste of time. He had no interest in me after…”  
  
“After what?”  
  
“Vincent, what is a sage?” He turned away from her, left hand in his pocket while the right one covered his eyes. He didn’t dare to face her, to tell her what he knew. Why keep it from her? When they were children, they had sworn to always answer each other’s question truthfully. No lies. No secrets. Only the bare truth with all its cruelties.  
  
“Do you remember the stories your grandmother used to tell us? The stories about how some people possess abilities others don’t.”  
  
“Of course, I do. She always used Juliette as an example.” Oh how special her sister was, how talented and all the things she was able to do thanks to her gift. The perfect assassin. Her father, her grandmother, her great-grandfather, each of them had been gifted, except for herself.  
  
“Sages…their abilities go beyond what we are able to imagine.” Was it true? Was Erik one of them? A sage. “Why do you ask?” Finally turning back around, Vincent raised an eyebrow. “I…” A war of moralities, of promises raged in her mind. Should she lie to her oldest friend and thus protect the  ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask? The master of lies would look through her schemes with ease, even before she had opened her mouth and set them free. Yet what if she indeed told the truth, merely leaving out certain details. A Dorian always finds a way.  
  
“The Persian mentioned a sage, the reason why he suddenly lost interest in me.” Aurélie did her best to avoid his gaze, she needed him to not ask any further questions. “I’m safe now.” Did she believe her own words? No. If Erik was indeed a sage, and the Persian thought so, he was in great danger. Whatever they, the Templars, planned to do, it would end in pain and he did not deserve to feel the boiling oil streaming down his shoulders, his back and chest. He deserved to be loved, to be held close and…  
  
“We should return to the Café Théâtre and tell your father.” A hand around her wrist, it knocked her out of the skies. Slowly raising her head, she glanced at Vincent who seemed to be everything but amused. “This information could help us take revenge.” What about the ghost though? Did the Persian know of his whereabouts? That he hid in a cave beneath the opera? He had only seen her fallen angel in his full attire, mask and cloak, would he recognise him without them? Fear, worry, she mustn’t show it, she had no other choice than hiding it.  
  
“Promise me to accompany me tomorrow night.” Retrieving her hand, she drew circles on her palm, her thoughts with the musical genius. A sigh reached her ears. “You took a liking to the mysterious Phantom, lurking in the shadows and waiting for its next victim.”  
  
“HIS next victim, Vincent. He’s a man, like you. Nothing less.” Adjusting his clothing, Vincent nodded, before turning towards the rising sun. “I give you my word, Aurélie. But for now, let us forget HIM and return back home.” Forget about him. Forget about the Phantom. Forget about the man behind the mask. No. He had occupied her mind, her soul. His music filling her head with melodies, breath-taking and mesmerising. He had already become a part of her and this time she would not forget herself.


	15. Chapter 15

The clock stroke six, when Vincent and Aurélie entered the Café Théâtre. Through a back door they sneaked in, nicking an entire bowl of fruits to eat. Whatever the young man had done last night, he seemed to be rather hungry. Her own stomach growled at the sight of fresh grapes, the reason why she helped herself to a few of them.  
  
“Many of my girls would kill to have a taste of you, Vin.” Twirling around, Juliette sat on the stairs, legs crossed and a newspaper in her hands. She didn’t mind her younger sister but was focused on her fellow assassin who passed the bowl to Aurélie. “There’s no need for a blood bath, I’d give myself to them willingly.” Slowly his tongue wandered over his lower lip and in an instant she knew about last night’s adventures. An embarrassed blush on her cheeks and gaze averted, she put down the bowl filled with fruits and attempted to walk upstairs, passing Juliette. Yet a hand around her ankle stopped her.  
  
“How is he?”  
  
“Who?” Without turning towards her sister, she knew what kind of look spread over her freckled face. She loved her, deeply, but why could she not leave her alone for once? Wasn’t she allowed to have secrets? Wasn’t she allowed to follow her own desires? During their childhood she had always been so utterly curious, nosey even. Gathering information, such an easy task for her. If only she was more like her.  
  
“Who, you ask? I’m talking about the Phantom. You’ve always been…rather interested in him. Box number five was more attractive to you than the operas you watched with mémère.” Why did she know? How did she know? How could she know? Had Vincent stabbed her in the back and told Juliette about their nightly activities? Or was she bad at keeping her own secrets? Another try, another failure.  
  
What would she have given to be able to return to Erik? In his presence only music existed, there was no outer world, no multitude shunning him or her. No worries, no fears.  
  
“I…He…The cave is empty.” Was she able to look through her lie, her excuse? “I tried to save the few things that were left.”  
  
“Oh…my apologies.” It seemed as she did indeed believe her. This was not skill, merely luck. Her fallen angel watched over her. This feeling, it made a soft smile appear on her lips and suddenly all she wanted to do was to sing. Sing the melody she had heard earlier, the melody not written for her but somebody entirely else. Somebody brave and courageous enough to face their fears.  
  
“Don’t let Aunt Marceline catch you. Her favourite vase is missing and she’s already busy with preparations for the masquerade.” Turning around achingly slow, her hands shaking and heart racing, her breath hitched. “When is the masquerade?”  
  
“In ten days. Are you planning to attend?” The older chuckled; she expected a “no”. How surprised she would be by her sister’s reply. “I considered it to be honest.” Having risen to her full height , Juliette tilted her head and furrowed her brows. Crossing her arms in front of her chest, a wide smile appeared on her face. “Finally. I’m sick of talking to people thrice my age. Not to mention there are no women to have a chat with, at least none who don’t seem to be some kind of great-aunt.” She was the sun, lighting the morning sky. Her cheerful disposition, her tender heart and yet the coldness, the serenity with which she slit her targets’ throats. An example, an idol, a mentor to look up to. The children she looked after, cared for, they were to become the next generation of assassins.  
  
“You need a costume. Both of you.” Vincent rolled his eyes, plopping a grape into his mouth, while Aurélie chewed on her lower lip. Would she and Erik wear matching attires? The devil and his servant? The poet and his muse? The king and his queen?  
  
“Ask your girls for suggestions, Juliette.”  
  
“So, you’ll stand here in your birthday’s suit? I doubt your mother would want this.” He simply shrugged, biting into an apple he had taken out of the bowl. “What about you, petite sœur? What will you wear?”  
  
“I haven’t thought about it yet.” Until last night she had not even planned to attend and now… There was so much to do, to prepare and she had contemplated to present her fallen angel’s music. What had she done? What on earth had come over her? The last time she had sung in public, in front of an audience, she had been a mere child, not yet scarred by the cruel world. Perhaps, with Erik by her side, protecting her and guarding her, she was able to walk past, to leave behind her fears.  
“I’m in my bed chambers, if you need me.” Without speaking any further words, Aurélie climbed the remaining stairs and retired to her room. Vincent knew, partly knew what had happened and he would keep it to himself. She trusted him to keep it to himself. So much depended on it.  
  
Closing the doors, she leaned against them, head tilted back and fingers digging into her coat. Tears, a dam, it dared to break. She sank to the floor, wrapped her arms around her legs and sat there in silence.  
  
Her lips trembling and her body shaking, she let go, cut the last thread and closed her eyes. In a matter of second, her cheeks had turned to riverbeds, waterfalls wetting her clothes, her skin and somehow it was relieving. A load being taken off her mind. Why she cried, she didn’t know. Was it sorrow? Was it joy? Was it the lack of proper sleep?  
  
Her bones ached; her entire body ached down to the core. Perhaps he would visit her in her dreams, the ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask. Perhaps Erik was the one to fend off the nightmares daring to disturb her peaceful slumber.  
  
Rising to her feet, Aurélie took off her coat first, followed by her boots and trousers. Standing there, in her shirt, she glanced out the window. It was far too bright TO sleep, she needed to draw the curtains to be able to calm her mind, to rest.  
  
At last, having darkened her chambers, she let the remaining piece of clothing glide down her curves and now, almost fully naked, climbed into her bed, under her covers. A pillow, she clutched it, cradled it against her chest, imagining it was him. His arms wrapped around her waist, his face buried in the crook of her neck, humming a melody so beautiful Apollo himself would have been jealous. “Angel of music…”

 

  
_The ground was hard. Hard and cold and rough. Stones. Dirt. Where had they taken her? No breath of air, no nightly breeze. It was stale; the scent of death crept up her limbs, her shoulders, her neck.  
_  
_The catacombs. So often her father had spoken about them and how easy it was to get lost. Some bodies found in the labyrinth beneath the city, they were those of explorers, of urchins and revolutionaries, having gone astray.  
_  
_The realm of the dead. Where skeletons waltzed and sang; a masquerade beneath Paris. Ghost stories, her favourite tales. Not fear had caught her in its grasp, but curiosity. Was it true? This world was as much alive as the one above. Its citizens, its residents; their vessels of the flesh may decay but their souls are truly immortal.  
_  
_A cough, behind her. Footsteps, echoing through the tunnels. Her eyes were covered, her sight taken and yet she stayed calm. Her mémère had taught her, had shown her how to use one’s remaining senses. She was blind, she had learned not to depend on sight or ear alone. “Pay attention to your surroundings.” She had said. “And never let them see all of you.” Underestimation. The key to success. Aurélie wasn’t as strong as her father, as agile as her mother, but she was fast. Fast and small and no coin, no apple, no dagger ever escaped her grasp.  
_  
_“Take her!” That voice, it belonged to the mysterious man. The one who dared to burn his ally’s child. Like herself. She couldn’t smell any fire though. Candles, torches, candelabrums. The warmth, there was none. What had they talked about? What meaning lied within these words?  
_  
_Strong hands, hairy and bulky, grabbed her arms, pulled her up and stood her on her feet. Suddenly the sack on her head was removed. Blinking, adjusting to the darkness, she looked around but was promptly turned back forward. What was this, at the end of the tunnel? The ruins they walked towards, carved out of stone and polished, little flames dancing on top of wicks. The pillars, the windows lacking glass, the almost pitch-black floor, all bathed in deep crimson red. The gates to hell. Church doors leading to the devil’s kingdom. Breath-taking. Mesmerising. Fascinating.  
_  
_Lowering her gaze again, she noticed six figures, their faces hidden beneath dark hoods. They stood in a circle, around a mosaic on the floor. Catching a glimpse of it, she wondered what it was supposed to depict. Ancient gods? A deity thirsting for blood? Rills seamed the tiles, like rivers, like veins. In the centre, was this thing, this deformed circle, a heart?  
_  
_“Welcome Mademoiselle Dorian!” A seventh figure, emerging from the shadows. The voice, it did not belong to a man. “We have awaited your arrival in eager anticipation.”  
_  
_“W-What do you want from me?” Why did she stutter? She was not afraid; fear had not taken over. Yet this feeling, this sickening feeling lurking in the back of her head. Her hands, shaking. Her breath, hitching. The urge to cry came over her. Biting her tongue, holding back the tears, the taste of copper spread in her mouth. Blood.  
_  
_The stranger, she stepped closer and carefully took Aurélie’s chin between her fingers, stroking over her cheek. “There’s no need to weep, petit ange.” The tone in her voice, so soft and caring. How strange. Lifting her gaze, she finally caught a glimpse of the woman in black. One eye dark as night itself, the other blue as the morning sky, shimmering and shining. Her skin fair, almost pale. There was something gentle, something motherly about her. “I won’t hurt you.”_  
_“Madame, we need to hurry.”  
_  
_“It takes time, Azar.” A name, he had a name. She had to remember it, a simple word, a few letters. Whatever information they carried; it was vital. Those men dared to hurt a Dorian. Nobody laid a finger on a Dorian without facing the consequences. Her mémère would surely search for her, find her at the gates of hell. She always did, no matter the hideout. “Free her from those pathetic bonds. She is only a child.”  
_  
_“A rather defensive one though, Madame.” Aurélie felt how the rope was taken off and within the first second of her regained freedom, she twirled around and pushed away the man called Azar. Surprised by the sudden attack, he tumbled backwards, before steadying himself again. That saturnine look on his face. She was sure if the woman, the Madame hadn’t been present, he would have done something cruel to her.  
_  
_A hand on her shoulder made her flinch and she slowly turned her head sideward, catching a glimpse of the motherly figure, a soft smile on her lips. For some reason – how odd it seemed - she felt safe and protected. She wouldn’t let her be harmed, would she?  
_  
_“Aurélie…” The Madame knelt down in front of her, cupping her face. “Do me a favour, petit ange, and step into the circle.”  
_  
_“Why?”  
_  
_“Because she tells you to.” That man, he rolled his eyes in annoyance, earning a reprimanding glare from the woman in black. “And if you don’t hurry, I’ll drag you into that circle.”  
_  
_“Azar! Hold. Your. Tongue.” Flinching at her loud and yet firm words, he nodded. He was afraid of her, she could see it in his eyes, the tensions in his muscles. “Go! Get the flame!” Without hesitation he hurried off, disappearing from her view.  
_  
_What flame? What had they in mind? Her heart, it began to race and suddenly fear took over the wheel of the ship that was her soul, sailing over the sea of thoughts and memories. Where was Madame Lune? Where was her doll, her mémère? They would protect her from all people who wanted to hurt her. If only they were here with her, beneath the streets of Paris.  
_  
_She didn’t want to follow the stranger’s plea; she didn’t want to enter that circle. Tears dwelling in her eyes, she shook her head, fingers digging into her nightgown. What had she done? Why had she been chosen? What had she been chosen for? Was it because of her name, her blood? Revenge upon her family, her Brotherhood? She was fully aware of what role her parents, grandparents and her ancestors played in world’s history. Yet she wasn’t one of them, she wasn’t an assassin but a mere child. A child caught in fear’s grasp.  
_  
_“I-I don’t…I-I can’t…” Stammering, she took a step back, away from the Madame who grabbed her wrist and didn’t let go of her. “You will step into that circle. Now!”_  
_“No!” She screamed, vainly trying to break free. She sighed, the woman, before twisting Aurélie’s arm and making a painful cry escape her throat. “Your soul will obey, petit ange.” Her voice, it was still soft and somehow that of a mother’s. Had she…?  
_  
_“Madame!” Azar gasped, a golden lantern in his right hand. How beautiful it was, the delicate ornaments crawling upwards and a flame dancing in its heart. At a forced pace he walked to them, not deigning to look at her, the child paralysed by the thing most deadly to her kind.  
_  
_“You will fulfil the task on my behalf for you will take my place one day.” She was dragged into the centre of the room, the hall, surrounded by seven hooded figures and in front of her, there stood he. “From now on Azar Khan…” Her soul shouted; her mind cried in agony. Why on earth did her body refuse to move? She needed, she must flee. Tears streamed down her cheeks and yet no sound left her lips. A rope around her neck, tightening. She wanted to scream, to cry. Her mouth was dry and all in the sudden a veil laid over her gaze. “You shall be called “The Persian”.”  
_  
_Silence. For a moment there was silence. Then pain. Unbearable, insufferable pain._


	16. Chapter 16

A rope around her neck, Aurélie started up from her restless slumber. In an instant her hand shot up to her throat yet nothing was there. Nothing but sweat and tears. When had she started to cry?  
  
Shame crawled over her skin as she wrapped the eiderdown around her body and lowered her head. Nightmares had been one of her closest companions since that day, that night. Had she ever had a pleasant dream? A dream about picnics and flowers and operas. She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember when she had last laughed, when she had last shown the world her true self. No. Erik knew her true self, how gladly she had shown him. They were more alike than some may presume. Two souls, lost in the hell that was earth.  
  
It was early afternoon, she realised after having risen and peeking out of the window. She couldn’t leave at that time, questions would be asked and explanations demanded. What was she to do?  
  
Her tummy grumbling, she bit her lower lip and let her gaze wander. How convenient a nice cup of hot chocolate would be.  
  
A mint green nightgown at the edge of her bed caught her attention and within a moment she had slipped it on. The soft silk caressed her skin and the scent of lavender closed in around her.  
  
Snatching a hair needle, she pinned up her braid and swiftly made her way to the door, quietly sneaking through it.  
  
“Who’s Erik?” Startled, Aurélie froze, not even daring to blink. Juliette stood mere inches away from her, an impish grin on her freckled face. How did she…? “Is he the reason you decided to attend Aunt Marceline’s masquerade?”  
  
“I-I…” Stuttering, she averted her gaze. “It’s none of your business.” Forthwith she covered her mouth, appalled by her own words. What had come over her? What madness?  
  
“I heard you say this name over and over again, there has to be a meaning to it.”  
  
“Despite your belief, there isn’t.” Not daring to look up, she walked past her sister towards the stairs. “It’s him, isn’t it?” She stopped. Closing her eyes, she bit the inside of her cheek until the taste of blood filled her mouth. “It’s the ghost…You’ve found the Phantom of the Opera.”  
  
She couldn’t tell her the truth otherwise Juliette would start following her everywhere, she would become her shadow. Vincent was the only one involved and it should stay that way, for he was her oldest and most trustful friend, and the prince of lies. If she was able to follow his example?  
  
“I haven’t, Juliette.” Twirling around, hands clenched to fists, she stared deeply into her opponent’s amber eyes. “The Phantom is nothing more than a legend.”  
A hint of shock in her face, the older took a step back, signalising her defeat. Aurélie was rather thankful for this reaction, to her own surprise admittedly. She was not used to speaking up against anybody, after all she had never had a reason to. Protecting Erik, it was her priority. And this time no Templar, no assassin would intervene.  
  
Relieved she walked down the stairs, when suddenly… “What happened to your hand, pie?” That name, nobody had dared to use it after what had happened in the catacombs. “I accidentally cut myself with a shard. Aunt Marceline’s vase fell to pieces. Please don’t tell her.” Tense, her body was tense and she felt her heart racing in her chest. Fear. Fear creeping up her back. Not now. She had to maintain the mask of serenity. She must maintain it at all costs. For Erik’s sake.  
  
“Do you remember when we built the barricades, so nobody would be able to enter the Café Théâtre?”  
  
“I do.”  
  
“Do you remember the promise we gave? The promise to never tell lies to each other?”  She did. Oh how well she remembered. A summer’s day. The heat crawling into every muscle, every bone, into every single fibre of her body. Trousers only reaching her knees, a white shirt tucked into them and a red scarf around her waist, her brown hair hidden beneath a cap, making her look like a young boy. Those who dared to near the barricades were shot with corks stolen from wine bottles. Their father had told them countless stories of how the people of France had built barricades, how they had fought for freedom and how his own father had died upon them. In fact, Aurélie had been named after the very man who had given his own life in exchange for his brothers’ and sisters’.  
  
“Do you remember, Aurélie?” Her voice trembled; Juliette was on the brink of losing her patience. And yet she, her precious, little sister, stayed silent, mouth stitched up by anguish and guilt. “Why are you lying to me?” She flinched at the sound, the cry of the one she wished to be and a mere moment later a hand closed around her wrist, nails digging into her skin.  
  
Tears. Tears of pain or fear, she couldn’t quite tell. Erik would protect her; the Phantom would take her away to where she longed to be. With him. His voice soothing her, his hands caressing her, his lips touching hers.  
  
“There’s a dangerous man out there. I am not willing to let any harm come over you.” Her grip softened and suddenly fingers pinched her chin, turning her towards the older Dorian.  
  
Worry. Sorrow. Vengeance. Had she already lost someone dear to the Persian? Someone who was not one of them? “Not again.” Was this about her?  
  
“I…” Aurélie whispered, words like birds flying through her mind. “I’m not in danger.”  
  
“What?” The truth. The bare truth. A forbidden fruit in the garden of lies and pretence. Allies. She needed allies. Why had the Brotherhood grown strong? Because the people had united, fighting against the common enemy. Yet could she trust her, her own sister, her own blood? So much at risk. So little time to consider.  
  
“He let me go.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“The Persian.” Retrieving her hand, Juliette sank to the ground, leaning against the balustrade. “He has no use for me. Not anymore.”  
  
“How?” She rose her head, breath hitching. “Why?”  
  
“I don’t know, he only mentioned a Sa-“  
  
“What on earth is going on here?” Vincent, seemingly having recovered from last night, stood mere meters away from them at the end of the staircase. “Does…Does she know?” Within a second the eldest had jumped to her feet and chased down, gripping his throat. “You were in the picture, Vincent? You endangered her? Handed her on the silver platter?” She may have been smaller than him but this didn’t stop her from threatening her fellow assassin.  
  
“Juliette, stop it!” Tearing her away from the philanderer, she glared at her. “Why are you defending him? He put you in danger.”  
  
“He didn’t!” Aurélie took a deep breath, her gaze wandering from Juliette to Vincent. He looked so uncertain, confused even. He had no idea what was happening and why and in honesty she didn’t either. How was she supposed to convince her sister to stay from mangling the young man, who had done nothing but offer his help?  
“It was me…and only me. Vincent merely looked after me and he only left my side, when he knew I was safe.”  
  
“The only place you’re safe at is the Café Théâtre and you will not leave it again. No matter what the Persian told you. He is and will always be a Templar.”  
  
“No.” At that moment she didn’t waste a single thought on considering her words or actions. Nobody was going to keep her from returning to Erik. “That’s not true. There is a place, it’s peaceful and calm and…” It was the only way. She needed to tell her and perhaps, if she was lucky, she would understand. “Juliette.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Promise me one thing.” Drawing circles on her palm, she rose her gaze and met her sister’s. “I will tell you the reason behind all this but please keep it a secret. I beg you.” Juliette nodded. “We should hide from curious ears then.” A mischievous smirk plucked on the corner of her mouth.  
  
“And what about me?” Theatrically Vincent threw his arms in the air, waiting for an answer. “You will keep watch.”


	17. Chapter 17

They met in the Legacy room afterwards. In the meantime, Aurélie had dressed herself in her usual clothes and a tray with a cup of hot chocolate and a croissant had been placed in the centre of the round table.  
  
She remembered how her mémère had told her about the displayed attires. Each of them belonged to a former Mentor of the Brotherhood, except for one. She knew almost everything about those robes and her favourite was Pierre Bellec’s, mostly because it wouldn’t be considered an assassin apparel at first sight, not to mention that it covered the delicate skin, all the scars and burns.  
  
“So…” Juliette leaned against the window, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, expecting a proper explanation.  
  
Where was she to start? How was she to start? Walking a tightrope would have been easier. Erik depended on her, his safety and well-being depended on her choice of words. He was not dangerous, not to her, au contraire in fact. He had saved her, had protected her from the blade of the Persian without wasting any thoughts on the consequences. The ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask. So much more than a simple story, so much more than an elusive legend. And yet he hid in the shadows, sparing anyone from his hideous visage. No. How wrong. The fallen angel was beautiful, beyond beautiful.  
  
“You were right. I found him, the Phantom.” Drawing circles on her palms, her eyes followed the leaves dancing in the wind. “I felt guilty for stealing his music and so I returned it to him. The clothes Vincent claimed to be his were the Phantom’s. I fell into the lake…he…he didn’t want me to be cold.”  
  
“And Erik is his name, I suppose.” Feeling heat creep up her cheeks, she nodded. In the corner of her eye, she noticed her sister’s lips curl into an impish smile. What was she thinking?  
  
“With Vincent’s help I once more descended into the world beneath Paris, but this time I crossed paths with the Persian. He had caught me leaving the lair through a tunnel leading to the streets instead of the channels. Only with Erik’s help did I manage to stay unharmed.” She glanced at her hand, letting it slide beneath her coat. “I owe him my life.”  
  
“You owe him nothing, Aurélie. He’s nothing but a man.” A dagger dug into her heart at those words. To her this was an insult, yet to him it might have been a compliment. It was all he desired, to be accepted. Much like her. The world was cruel though and he deserved better than this. He deserved this very world at his feet, mesmerised by his music. Nobody would dare to lay a finger on him.  
  
“He will attend the masquerade with me, Juliette.” Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she took a deep breath. “And I will perform a song written by him.”  
“You can’t be serious.”  
  
“I am.”  
  
“You haven’t stood on stage for over 15 years. Why would you suddenly deci-“  
  
“Why does nobody have any trust in me?” Hands clenched to fists, nails digging into her palms, her breath hitched. Erik believed in her. The flame of a single soul was able to light the beacon showing her the path to courage.  
  
“Because you will only hurt yourself with this…this ridiculous idea.” A voice in her mind, screaming, crying in agony. Flames dancing on her shoulders, her back, her chest, her limbs. The rope around her throat, tightening. The crack in her heart grew with every second, had she been impaled? Her home, the place she knew like the back of her hand, had turned into hell in a matter of seconds.  
  
She had to go, she had to leave, she couldn’t bear it anymore. She needed to run. Run for her life.  
  
Without wasting another moment, Aurélie twirled around and burst away, not daring to look behind. Her feet carried her through the streets of Paris, past the urchins and harlots Juliette besteaded, past the secret outposts of the Brotherhood, past the Opéra Garnier. Where her destination was, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. And yet she hoped his song to fill her mind once again, leading her to him, to his kingdom of music.  
  
Walking on clouds. Her steps unsteady, her legs wobbly. Her entire body was shaking and the pain, it made her numb. Numb to all the noises, to the sun on the sky, to the blood on her lips. A shadow. A ghost. A phantom.   
  
Her mémère had told her to sing, but she wasn’t afraid. For the first time in her life her grief had not been caused by fear but a broken heart. Cast out by her own blood. She was no assassin, she was no Dorian, only little Aurélie. Little lost Aurélie.  
  
Red rose bushes, in the distance. She was close, so close to the angel bringing her salvation.  
  
Hands folded, fingers entangled, holding them against her chest, she stepped into the tunnel.  
  
Darkness embraced her. The sound of waterdrops hitting the stone floor and a wisp of music. A wisp of a voice indulging her senses, beguiling her mind, enchanting her soul. Oh what would she have done to answer his call but her throat, the rope. All she could do was to put one foot in front of the other until she reached the curtain leading into the cave.  
  
“No one would listen. No one but her heard as the outcast hears.” His voice, that soft undertone. No sign of sorrow. No sign of pain. Was this the price? The price for his happiness? Her suffering had brought her to him again and again, the fear and anguish. Was this constant torment, the war raging in her head, required in order to return?  
  
What was she thinking? Not a single thought making sense, everything scattered all over the sea of her mind. She was going mad, insane and dared to lose herself once again. Yet this time it was nobody’s fault but her own.  
  
“Shamed into solitude, shunned by the multitude, I learned to listen. In my dark, my heart heard music.” Although Aurélie was more than sure that Erik did, in fact, sing about himself, it seemed as he told her story as well. She had been alone for so long, cast out by the Brotherhood, by society and now by her own sister. Only the music kept the last spark of sanity from leaping into the bottomless chasm of her soul.  
  
“I longed to teach the world, rise up and reach the world. No one would listen, I alone could hear the music.” No. She heard it too, and she would do all in her might and beyond to make the world bow down to the genius, the ghost, the Phantom. To Erik, the man behind the mask.  
  
“Then at last, a voice in the gloom seemed to cry-“  
  
“I hear you.” Still hiding behind the curtain, her fingers clutched at it. She wanted to thrust it aside but something, something prevented her from doing so. It was as she had turned into a puppet on a string, no control over her own body. Merely her lips moved. “I hear your fears, your torment and your tears.”  
  
“You saw my loneliness.” Steps. Coming closer and closer.  
  
“Shared in your emptiness.” Tears. Dwelling in her eyes and as she closed them, those very tears began to stream over her cheeks. “No one would listen.”  
  
“No one but you.” A hand closing around hers, cautiously pulling her forward, leading her into the sanctuary. “Heard as the outcast hears.” Both their voices echoed through the cave, quietly. And then, silence.  
  
How long they stood there, she couldn’t tell. She had lost her sense of time. In his presence though, this was immaterial, it didn’t matter.  
  
Neither of them moved, merely breathed and yet she felt his gaze resting upon her. Whatever crossed his mind at that moment, it made him tighten his grip around her wrist. Was he aware of the pain he caused? He could easily have broken her bones, if he had wanted to.  
  
When she cast up her eyes, she was met with what seemed to be anger. Had she scared him? Had he thought she was…?  
  
“Christine…”  
  
“Christine…” Yes. He had hoped that it was his precious Christine Daée, now de Chagny, returning to her Angel of Music. That melody, linked to her name, to her. Why had she been born Aurélie Dorian? Nothing more than an understudy, that’s what she was. The understudy of the one his heart truly belonged to. No matter what, she would never be her.  
  
Erik looked at her, his expression had softened and he had retrieved his hand. If he understood what he had done to her? He had thrown that last spark of sanity into the lake beneath the opera. She was lost. No home, no allies, no enemies. Nothing. She was nothing.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was on holiday in bella Italia. Additionally there's now the possibility to ask Aurélie some questions. https://ask-aurelie-dorian.tumblr.com/

A scream. A scream full of grief and agony. Then the sound of candelabrums hitting the floor, followed by quiet whimpers and even sobs.  
  
She didn’t dare to avert her gaze turned forwards; she didn’t dare to look at him. And yet, in the corner of her eye, Aurélie saw him. On all fours, hands clenched to fists and tears streaming over his face. A child, he was merely a child. This body, that of a grown man, it was nothing more than a vessel for the mind of a boy who had never known any kindness, any compassion. Nobody had shown him such. Nobody except for Christine.  
  
If there had been a way to bring back his beloved angel, she wouldn’t have wasted another second in this cave and would have set out to fulfill his desire. But she was gone, his love was gone and she would never return. Like mémère.  
  
Both had lost so much. Both had lost those they held close. Why couldn’t they find comfort in each other? She had thought to have found the ghost, the Phantom, but no. She had found Erik instead, the man no one had ever caught sight of, the broken soul, the wandering child.  
  
“Why are you still here?” He hissed, head lowered. “Can you even dare to look or bear to think of me? This loathsome gargoyle, who burns in hell but secretly yearns for heaven. Secretly...secretly.”  
  
Slowly she turned around, staring at him with glassy eyes. What made her stay? What on earth was the reason behind her actions defying any explanation? What was this? A nightmare, or a daydream?   
  
Taking one step forward, her gaze resting on him, she swallowed. “Pitiful creature of darkness..”  
  
“No…No…Stop!” He covered his ears, attempting to shun the music, his very own tune. And in that moment not pity took over her mind, her soul but compassion. She had believed the ghost would take away all her fears, all the doubts and regrets. She had believed him to be her saviour, yet what if she was his?  
  
“What kind of life have you known?” Aurélie knelt down in front of him, in front of Erik. He was lost. She was lost. Both had gone astray and on their own they would never have a chance to reach the path leading to their future, however it might look.  
  
Her right hand, it wandered from his temple over his cheekbone to his chin, lifting it slightly. His lip trembled and she wasn’t sure of who was crouching there in the dim candlelight. A man, a boy, a ghost, a mere shadow.  
  
“God give me courage to show you, you are not alone.” Her coat slipped from her shoulders, her jacket landed on top of it, followed by her corset until only her shirt was left. He had seen her scars, part of them. It was his face that haunted him but it was her body that haunted her. A failed painting, they had called her. A traitor to her bloodline. A broken porcelain doll, having given up the waiting for being fixed. Not to him, not to Erik. For the first time since that fateful day she wasn’t ashamed of her imperfection.  
  
His breath hitched. Was it her standing in front of him in nothing but her undergarments? Was it her sign of ineffable trust? Or was her refusal to leave him in his wake the reason? He was a riddle, the man behind the mask.  
  
Slowly, shaking, he rose to his feet, to his full height and suddenly she felt like a child. More than a head taller than her, he was somehow intimidating. The gloom in his mismatched yet beautiful eyes only added to this. The predator and its prey. The poet and his muse. The devil and his servant.  
  
His fingers tracing her scars, first those on her shoulders, then those on her back. A cat, a panther circling a mouse and she was the latter.  
  
When he had reached the edge of her shirt, less than an inch above her breasts, an embarrassed smile snuck on her lips. She was blushing for sure and he would have to be blind not to notice. Or perhaps there were more important things.  
  
His gaze met hers. A moment of silence and then. “Sing, my angel. Sing for me.”  
  
“In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came.” It was true, she had seen him in her dreams. The Phantom leading her through the opera house, through his opera house. In this realm her scars were nothing more than a distant memory. In this realm she was what she could never have been in the world of the living. His. His muse, his servant, his angel. And yet fate had granted her a wish, fate had done her a favour, had repaid its debt.  
  
“That voice which calls to me and speaks my name.” An arm wrapped around her, and the heat radiating from the ghost, softly pressing her against him. “And do I dream again, for now I find…”  
  
“The Phantom of the Opera is there, inside your mind.” His fingers entangled in her braided and loosely pinned up auburn hair. His grip tightened, and suddenly he sank to his knees, making her turn towards him.  
  
“Erik, what’s-“ Hands on her lower back, he pulled her even closer. An embrace. A rather strange embrace. He didn’t want to let go, he wasn’t able to let go. And neither was she.  
  
What feeling was this blooming in the pit of her stomach? His touch cold as ice yet inflaming her skin, kindling the one thing she so much desired. Courage. A chance to proof herself. She was no assassin, she would never be but entertaining her people, easing their pain of loss, it was the least she could do.  
  
“Don’t leave me, I beg you. Please.” Raising his gaze, he looked at her with puffy eyes, the light of hope glimmering in them. The world deserved to behold the genius knowing no bounds. No. The genius deserved the world laying at his feet, the audience under his spell. And there was only one way to guarantee this.  
  
“Masquerade! Paper faces on parade.” Her voice was quiet, scarcely audible. Her hand cupping his face, he leaned into her touch and slowly his took hold of hers. Long and slim, his fingers, soft and stains of ink on his pale skin. A true virtuoso.  
  
“Hide your face, so the world will never find you.” Arising once again, a faint smile flashed over his lips.  
  
A kiss. Yes. No. It was inappropriate and childish. Her entire behaviour throughout the last few hours had been utterly childish, mindless. She hadn’t considered the consequences. She hadn’t considered anything. Why was she standing her in nothing but her undergarments, a man, a stranger close enough to…  
  
Taking a step backwards, Erik releasing her from his embrace with reluctance and perplexed by her sudden repulsion of him, she lowered her head and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. What had she done? Juliette had been right. Whatever she did it always ended in pain and suffering. Not even the Phantom was able to put an end to this. She was merely an understudy. Never during her pitiful existence would she play the leading role in the tragedy that was life. Not even her mémère’s advice could help her now. Not only had she lost her wings but her voice as well.  
  
“The day starts the day ends, time crawls by. Night steals in, pacing the floor…” The tune, it sounded so familiar. Was this…? “The moments creep yet I can't bear to sleep ‘til I hear you sing.”  
  
“And weeks pass and months pass, seasons fly, still you don't walk through my door. And in a haze I count the silent days ‘til I hear you sing once more.” How did she? How could she? Where did the words, the lyrics…? Why did she know them in all of the sudden? She had heard this melody only once. Once when she had touched the organ.  
  
“Your voice is beautiful, Aurélie. We cannot withhold your talent from the audience.” Her mouth hanging open, she stared at him in disbelief. What had he said? Her voice. He considered her voice to be beautiful. “Yet you urgently need to straighten your posture and the tension in your muscles, it will keep you from fulfilling your potential.”  
  
Was he? Was he scolding her? The Phantom of the Opera, who had been weeping, who had refused to let go of her mere minutes ago, was scolding her. It was not too surprising though. She had never received any professional training, her mémère had simply taught her how to play the piano. She had never had the chance to turn her passion her into a profession. After all she was a Dorian, caught in the cage of the Brotherhood. If only there was a way to find the key.  
  
“There’s only little time until the masquerade. I expect you to work hard on yourself, so this will not end in a disaster.” A disaster? Another failure and nobody would be taken aback by this. Yet the die was cast, she could not reverse herself now. She would show the world what it lacked, his music and her voice.  
  
“May I choose the song, Erik?” Eyebrow raised, he glanced at her, before lowering his head and a deep sigh escaping his lips.  
  
“I will follow all of your orders, will listen to every single advice you give me, but…grant me that one wish.” Pleading eyes, those of a kicked puppy, folded hands against her chest and an expression of sorrow on her delicate and doll-like features.  
  
“On one condition.” He stepped closer, one arm behind his back, softly stroking over her cheek and conjuring a smile in her face adorned with youthful innocence.  
Chewing on her lower lip, she nodded, hesitantly. Whatever he asked for, she would give it to him.  
  
“You will wear this ring.” Between his thumb and forefinger, there glistened a gorgeous ornament. Silver, a dark, pitch black jewel enthroned on its top and delicate adornments engraved.  
  
“Every single one of those ignorami will know you belong to me.” He whispered, not more than three inches between them, taking her hand in his and placing the ring on her left ring finger.  
  
So close. He was so close to her. It made her heart race, his proximity and his scent, his intoxicating scent. How was she to concentrate on singing in his presence? How was she not to be distracted by his intimidating yet fascinating demeanour? How was she not to fall in love with the ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask?  
  
“You’re the devil.” An amused chuckle flashed over his lips, as Erik stepped backwards, extending his hand for her to take and without hesitation she followed his silent plea. “And you’re my humble servant.”


	19. Chapter 19

“And you’re my humble servant.” Her heart skipped a beat at those words. It seemed as he had read her mind, her thoughts, had looked deep into her soul and seen her utmost desires. The man in front of her was everything but ordinary.  
  
An angel. A fallen angel; lost and disgraced, isolated. He did not belong in this world and neither did she. It was not heaven she yearned for though, only him. His beguiling voice, his tender touch, his mismatched eyes. Erik alone made all those memories, her painful past melt away like a snowflake on the first day of spring. He was the flame, the warmth embracing her. He was her courage.  
  
“Erik!” Aurélie let go of his hand, lowering her head and earning a perplexed look from the very much alive ghost. “May I ask you to write down the song for the masquerade?”  
  
“You can sightread?” His surprised response, it irritated her. She was no artist, no opera diva. In fact, this should have not taken her aback. He didn’t know about the countless hours she had spent playing the piano with her mémère, singing and dancing, forgetting everything around her, forgetting the cruelty of the war recorded in no history books. The war which had scarred her for life.  
  
“Yes.” Aurélie raised her gaze, arms wrapped around her waist and fingers digging into her clothes. “My grandmother taught me…or rather my father, since my grandmother was blind. She didn’t see the music, she felt it with every fibre of her body.”  
  
She turned away from him, her eyes wandering over the vast, foggy lake, when suddenly a piece of fabric was wrapped around her head. It had taken her sight. Panic rose and within a moment her scars started to burn again. Her throat, dry and that rope, that rope around her neck. Was she caught in a nightmare? Had this been nothing more than a dream, the last seventeen years? Was she still at the gates of hell, beneath the living and breathing city of Paris?  
  
A hand, brushing hers briefly and settling at her lower abdomen. What strange feeling this was. Comforting and disconcerting at once. What were his intentions? Those of the Phantom, or rather those of the man behind the mask, of Erik?  
  
“You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent. Silent.” The tone in his voice, possessive, not lessening the passion beneath. “I have brought you that our passions may fuse and merge. In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defences, completely succumbed to me. Now you are here with me. No second thoughts, you've decided. Decided.”  
  
His breath in the crook of her neck, his hot breath on her icy skin. She was shivering. Why? The melody was unfamiliar and yet it seemed as she knew exactly how it was to continue. She felt it, the music, being poured over her shoulders, streaming down her back, drops on her fingertips dripping onto the stone beneath her feet.  
  
The sense she depended on the most having been taken away, a wisp of freedom caressed her voice. Blind trust, by chapter and verse. No cage built out of fear and restraint to keep her prisoner now. No Templar, no Assassin causing any harm. Nothing. Nothing but the Phantom, her teacher, her master.  
  
“Past the point of no return, no backward glances our games of make-believe are at an end.” His hand, wandering upwards to her waist and pulling her closer. Slowly. Gently.  “Past all thought of "if" or "when", no use resisting, abandon thought and let the dream descend. What raging fire shall flood the soul?”  
  
”What rich desire unlocks its door?”  
  
“What sweet seduction lies before us?” Letting her head fall back against his chest, Aurélie bit on her lower lip. Her heart dared to break through her ribcage, sheer excitement pulsing in her veins. And something else, pooling in her lower abdomen, where he had touched her. “Past the point of no return. The final threshold. What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn? Beyond the point of no return.”  
  
A moment of silence. An ostensive eternity of silence. What was she supposed to do? Too dark to see a thing beneath this piece of fabric, too dark to even try.  
  
“Sing, little bird.” Erik whispered, a surprisingly sweet tone in his angelic voice. “Let me guide you.”  
  
Hesitating at first, she straightened herself and took a deep breath. “You have brought me to that moment when words run dry, to that moment when speech disappears into silence. Silence.”  
  
Firm corrections of her posture, the soft but brief touches, it was as flames were dancing on her skin although no pain tormented her. His gaze rested on her, she could feel his eyes, burning like the opera house on that fateful day. “I have come here hardly knowing the reason why. In my mind, I've already imagined, our bodies entwining, defenceless and silent. Now I am here with you, no second thoughts. I've decided. Decided.”  
  
The words, the lines. They spoke the truth she refused to see. The blurred line between fascination and adoration, no. Attraction. Physical, mental. His face, imperfection gracing his otherworldly features. His physique, or what she had seen of it, tall and lean, slight muscles from hiding in places one is not supposed to be. And those eyes, so much pain in them. Pain and sorrow and solitude.  
  
“Past the point of no return, no going back now. Our passion-play has now, at last, begun. Past all thought of right or wrong. One final question. How long should we two wait, before we're one?” “When will the blood begin to race?” Raw and somewhat feral his voice sounded. It was echoing in her ears and she barely noticed how he shifted, stepped in front of her. Too drunken she was, too intoxicated by his melody.  
  
“The sleeping bud burst into bloom?”  
  
“When will the flames, at last, consume us?” Together, united in song, they asked the question neither of them could answer. “Past the point of no return. The final threshold. The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn. We've passed the point of no return.”  
  
Silence. A comforting silence. Broken by quiet, almost silent whimpers.  
  
Without hesitation she tore off the piece of fabric, her mind filled with worry and fear. What had she done wrong? What had caused the sudden change of atmosphere? Was it her singing? Her intonation? Pronunciation? Why was she condemned to fail? Who had laid that curse on her?  
  
At first, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, but at second glance she realised this was no mere dream.  
  
Tears were streaming over his cheeks and yet there was a smile on his lips. A sad smile. What was this? Why would he…?  
  
“Oh Aurélie.” Erik whispered, gaze resting on the sheets in his hands. “What a fine Aminta you would have made.”  
  
Don Juan Triumphant. The last opera to be played on the stage of the Opéra Garnier, the Opéra Populaire. It was him. He had written it, the ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask.  
  
Never had she had the chance to hear it, to listen to it and give in to the power of the music that he wrote.  
  
She didn’t dare to step closer and so she stood rooted to the spot, head lowered and eyes averted. Never, neither in her nightmares nor in her daydreams, would she be like Christine Daeé. She had played Aminta, she had been Aminta. Aurélie was nothing but a negligible flower girl, a background actor.  
  
“But…” Putting a finger under her chin, he lifted it carefully. “I will make you something even greater.” How could she ever be greater than the one his heart longed for? Wishful thinking. Thoughts originating from desperation and loneliness. He was merely trying to flatter her, lure her in like an unsuspecting fish. And no matter how often she told herself to stop falling for her own mind’s tricks, Aurélie couldn’t escape the feeling that beneath all those layers of compliments and cajolery, there was a grain of truth. Did she mean anything to him, only a little?   
  
“There will be no need for costumes at the masquerades, when you sing, little bird, for your voice paints the suits and gowns in all the colours nobody dares to imagine.” He believed in her. He truly believed in her. Her failures, her imperfections were immaterial, they didn’t matter to him.  
  
“I suggest you dress yourself, before we start our lesson.”  
  
“Lesson?”  
  
“Of course. Diamonds never sparkle right, if they aren't set just right.”


	20. Chapter 20

By the time Aurélie had fully dressed herself, Erik had – to her surprise – finished writing down the very song she so much desired to sing. If she was able to present his music the way its creator deserved? She was no prima donna after all. Only a girl. A lonely girl, afraid of what obstacles the world might put in her way. As if there weren’t enough of them already.  
  
Curiously yet cautiously she stepped closer to the man who was vainly trying to make the ink dry faster by peevishly staring at it and drumming his long and slim fingers, stains of the black liquid adorning them once again, on his desk. Despite the obvious annoyance he seemed somewhat calm, even comfortable. Was this her doing? No. How ridiculous to think of such a thing. For usual it was her, who caused discomfort. Uneasy and sometimes infuriated they felt, those surrounding her.  
  
In the corner of her eye, she noticed him glancing at her and instantly turned away, a slight blush creeping up her cheeks and painting them in a delicate pink.  
  
He followed suit, a mask of embarrassment covering the one made of porcelain, before clearing his throat and rising to his full height. “You might want to take a look at the sheets of music to make yourself familiar with the melody.”  
  
She nodded, reaching for them but suddenly she hesitated. “Erik?”  
  
“What is it, little bird?” He asked, hands crossed behind his back and a soft tone in his angelic voice.  
  
Uncertain of how to word her question, Aurélie sat down on the stairs and once again began to draw circles on her thigh. What if it angered him? What if there was no answer? What if? What if?  
  
They were driving her mad, all the thoughts and the worry about his reaction, about his reply. Why did her mind always lead a fight against her soul? Nothing to be afraid of, nothing to scare or harm her and yet the fear, her constant companion, refused to let go of her limbs, her chest, crawled up her spine and clutched her neck. A parasite it was, unwanted and sucking her dry, not leaving a single drop of joy in her burned body. Oh how much she yearned for a moment of insouciance.  
  
“Aurélie!” A pair of mismatched eyes, his pair of mismatched eyes stared at her; concern shimmering in them. He hadn’t stepped closer, hadn’t knelt down. He had simply turned towards her and his mere gaze frightened away the thoughts torturing her soul. Erik expected a reply.  
  
“I…” Taking a deep breath, she rose and hesitantly stood herself in front of him, her fingers brushing her collar bone. “Your organ is...How do you want to accompany my singing?”  
  
Surprise flashed over the uncovered part of his beautiful face. It seemed as he had reckoned without such an inquiry.  
  
For a moment, it may had been two as well, there was silence. A rather strange silence for it did not cause any distress as usual.  
  
People, their expressions, their emotions could be read easily, especially when they were trying to hide them and yet the ghost in front of her puzzled Aurélie. What did he think of? What did he think about? Not only the answer to her question, but so much more.  
  
Then, in all of the sudden and without a warning, he twirled around and walked off.  
  
Panic began to rise; her heart skipped a beat. What had she done? He seemed so…confused, irritated, uncertain. Follow him? Wait for him? Run? Run away and not look back? Again? Nowhere to go, nowhere to stay. Lost. Lost in a world, where no god, no king, no man helped the outcasts.  
  
Grasping the sheets, holding them close, clutching them against her chest, she quietly sang to herself. “The day starts, the day ends, time crawls by. Night steals in, pacing the floor. The moments creep yet I can't bear to sleep ‘til I hear you sing.”  
  
A voice. No. Yes. Not of a human, not of a ghost, of an angel. The voice of a violin. A rich voice, warm and soothing, unique, inimitable, one of a kind, incomparable with anything she had ever heard. This was no ordinary instrument. It must have been built by a genius, must have been played by one. It was played by one.  
  
“And weeks pass and months pass, seasons fly, still you don't walk through my door.” Aurélie turned, turned towards the music, the wistful melody, welcomed it. “And in a haze I count the silent days ‘til I hear you sing once more.”  
  
She arose, mesmerised and fascinated by the sheer beauty of a handful of tones, arranged to something beyond compare.  
  
They danced, her voice and the violin’s, danced like the chorus girls so often did on the stage of the opera. And nobody was watching, nobody to mock her, to stultify her, to humiliate her. It was only her, the lost little girl, and…  
  
“And sometimes in darkness, I dream that you are there, but wake, holding nothing but the cold night air.” Not written for her. This had not been written for her. The pain echoing in the words, the longing for times past, when his angel, his student, his Christine had adored him, had worshipped him.  
  
“G.D.” Carved into the dark wood of the instrument. Gustave Daée. The famous violinist.  
  
Shaking, her hands were shaking, her body was shaking and her voice…gone. Nothing more than breath, a wish, an illusion. She would never be what he longed for. She would never be what he desired. A simple diversion and nothing else.  
  
“I thought they buried his violin with him.” Aurélie asked quietly, lips trembling and gaze averted, trying to hold back the tears.  
  
“And let it be forgotten? No.” He laughed; Erik laughed, not noticing how her heart ached, how her soul cried.  
  
“A true master of the art is nothing without his tools.” Eyes wandering to his broken organ, he uttered a deep sigh. “And this is why you must train, little bird, to become a master of…”  
  
“May I stay?” Startled, he blinked, before taking a step back and straightening himself. “Don’t make me leave. I beg you. Please.”  
  
A moment of silence. Uncertainty in the air and tears on the ground, he put aside the violin with greatest care, ere the once mysterious Phantom sat down on the stairs. Burying his face in his hands, he took a deep breath.  
  
“Why would you want to stay here? With me? This loathsome gargoyle who burns in hell, but secretly yearns for heaven…secretly…secretly.”  
  
“I have nowhere else to go.” He lifted his head and looked at her, the failed painting, the broken porcelain doll, the bird with broken wings. If he felt pity for her? Sympathy? If he knew, if he fathomed how much alike they were? Two sides of a coin. The predator and its prey. The poet and his muse. The devil and his servant.  
  
“Why didn’t you leave all of this behind, after…after the opera…” How often Aurélie had asked herself this very question the last few days? She had lost count. He could have gone anywhere, everywhere. The Phantom was dead, the ghost no more. Nothing to hold him back, nothing worth fighting for.  
  
“I-I…” Hands clenched to fists, he stared into the abyss of his memories, or so she thought. Both anger and despair written in his face, Erik seemed to live through everything again and it pained her not to be able to save him from his past, to absolve him from his sins. Child of the wilderness, born into emptiness. He had learned to be lonely, had learned to find his way in darkness.  
  
Once she had had everything. Everything, but it was taken from her. He had nothing, the ghost, the Phantom, the man behind the mask. Nobody to be there for him, to comfort and care for him. No arms to hold him. His heart had always been on its own.  
  
“I had nowhere else to go.”


	21. Chapter 21

“You could have come to me, to the Café Théâtre.” A soft smile plucked on the corner of her lips, as she took a step towards him, holding her hands against her chest. “It is a sanctuary.”  
  
“And yet you decided to leave it behind.” He spoke the truth; there was a contradiction in her words. A contradiction caused by the lack of belonging. To her, a Dorian, it had always been a home, but to the assassins it was a sanctuary; a place to hide, a place to gather.  
  
“My sister…she…”  
  
Water. Lapping of water echoed through the tunnels, the channels. Were those steps she heard? The sound of somebody wading through the water, of somebody making their way to the cave.  
  
Alerted, Erik rose to his full height and reached for his sword that had been leaning against the stonewall. He stepped in front of her, covering her from a potential threat. What if Juliette had followed her? Would she dare to fight the ghost, who was nothing more than a man, made out of flesh and blood?  
  
“Aurélie!” That voice. That all too familiar voice. “Where are you for God’s sake?”  
  
“Vincent?” Surprised, irritated, she walked past the man behind the mask towards the tunnel. He sounded concerned, her childhood friend. What had happened? What was the reason for his tenseness? Was it Juliette? The Brotherhood? The Persian? Why did he search for her, here in the Phantom’s lair beneath the opera? Because he knew.  
  
A royal blue hood appeared in front of them, and in a matter of seconds Erik had jumped into the lake and pointed his sword at the intruder.  
  
“I mean no harm!” Vincent stated, hands raised in defence and blade at his throat.  
  
Her eyes wandered to the ghost made out of flesh and blood; he glanced at her, seemingly asking for advice. “He’s a friend.” She said, before holding out her hand for him to take. “His name is Vincent, I told you about him.”  
  
Turning his gaze back to the young man who had dared to invade his kingdom, he shot him a threatening look, ere giving Aurélie his undivided attention.  
  
An auburn curl wrapped around his long and slim fingers, he stepped behind her, not more than an inch between. It seemed as he sought her affinity, the warmth of her body. “You belong to me and nobody else.”  
  
Heat crawled up her cheeks, painting them in a deep red and she noticed how his heart raced, she could hear it, feel it. Did Vincent intimidate him?  
  
“I…” The assassin cleared his throat, ere continuing. “I come to warn you.”  
  
“Warn me?” She raised an eyebrow, puzzled and worried about what the answer might be.  
  
“Juliette is searching for you and now she knows where to find you…here…beneath the opera.” Although his concern warmed her heart, the fear of her own sister coming for the mysterious man she adored so much made her shiver and tremble. She knew what she was capable of and patience wasn’t one of her virtues.  
  
“Why in all of the sudden? She didn’t seem to care much about my affairs beforehand.” The pain in her voice, the feeling of loss, of loneliness and abandonment. “Have I become important to the matter of the Brotherhood? Now that the Persian has returned?”  
  
“I don’t know…” Vincent sighed, massaging his temples. “Juliette has been acting rather strange lately. Since the Persian’s return to be exact and I dare to doubt that you’re the reason for it.”  
  
For once. For once she wasn’t the one to cause worry. Oh how thankful she was.  
  
“I wish I could tell you what she plans to do once she’s here, but…”  
  
“Never underestimate a Dorian.” Something her mémère used to say.  
  
Vincent nodded, finally leaving the lake, his trousers and robe soaking wet. “And this is our mysterious Phantom of the Opera, I suppose?” A mischievous grin flashed over his lips, as he stood himself in front of them, his dark eyes on the ghost.  
  
She felt Erik shift behind her, he stiffened. “What a bright young man you are, Vincent.” The mocking tone in his voice, Aurélie seemed to be the only thing keeping him from jumping at his opponent’s throat. “Yet you don’t need to be concerned about Mademoiselle Dorian’s safety. I protected her from the man you call “The Persian”, and a little girl seeking a quarrel is no challenge for the mysterious Phantom of the Opera.”  
  
She wondered if he had reacted the same way, had his mask not hidden his face at this very moment, if he had appeared as Erik instead of the ghost many were frightened of. Nonetheless it was incredibly naïve of him to belittle her. He may have been in power of the Opéra Garnier, but no assassin, especially not Juliette Dorian, was intimidated by a ghost story, even if it turned out to be true. Nothing more than a fairy tale.  
  
“Erik.” Turning around and taking his hand, Aurélie bit her lip, not knowing how to explain the cause for her return to the lair. “Juliette…my sister…she’s the reason I left. I ran away from her, from the Café Théâtre, because she is against me performing your music at the masquerade. She thinks you are a threat to me.”  
  
Fear, uncertainty glimmered in his mismatched eyes and suddenly he let go of her, stumbling backwards, sinking to the floor and averting his gaze. Wandering child so lost and helpless.  
  
“Masquerade, paper faces on parade! Masquerade-”  
  
“Hide your face so the world will never find you.” Oh how much it broke her heart to see him like this. An animal trapped in a cage, frightened.  
  
“You are no threat to me and you will never be, whatever my sister says and I will not abandon you.” Kneeling down in front of him, she rose her hand to his face and stroke over his cheek softly, whispering, so only the two of them heard what was spoken. “I would rather die than be apart from you.” Those words were true. Without him her life was not worth living.  
  
“Forgive me for interrupting your little…conversation, but what do you want me to do? Now that Monsieur Fantôme is taking over my task.” Vincent asked, leaning against the cave wall, arms crossed.  
  
“Buy us time.”  
  
“How?” How? The answer to this question decided about her, about their future. Juliette was sceptic, she had always been, since her childhood; questioning rules and orders. Mémère had always said she reminded her of her father Arno, Master Assassin and saviour of the French Brotherhood. Cunning and skilled in many crafts.  
  
What if there was at least a bit of him in her? After all she was a Dorian, by blood.  
  
Turning towards her childhood friend, her hand having wandered down to Erik’s, her face darkened. “Hunt the Persian!”  
  
He chuckled, cocking an eyebrow. “You can’t be serious.”  
  
“Why not? You’ve said Juliette has been acting strange since the Persian’s appearance. What if he caused her behaviour to change so drastically?”  
  
“Our brothers and sisters have died trying to find him.”  
  
“Your brothers and sisters.” Bewilderment flashed over his features, as he looked at her. “I am no assassin, Vincent. And you and Juliette are capable of defeating him. He’s a lone wolf, you are the pack.”  
  
“If I bite the dust, I will haunt you at night.” An amused smile plucked on the corner of her lips. One ghost was enough for now. Hopefully she wouldn’t regret this, convincing her oldest and only friend to risk his life for her peace. She would never be able to take a look in the mirror again.  
  
“And I owe you.”  
  
“Oh yes, you do.” Grinning from ear to ear, Vincent twirled around, jumped into the lake and strolled out of the lair, whistling a lively tune.  
  
She always asked herself how he kept his optimistic attitude, despite watching death do his work every day. Perhaps it was the fact that he was an assassin, death’s messenger. They walked the path of life hand in hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for clicking on my fanfic, I appreciate it. In case you happen to come upon an error, please tell me, so I can correct it. *throws cookies*


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